


Morning Waves and Metaphorical Spoons

by LillieGrey



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5001904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LillieGrey/pseuds/LillieGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For five months they've started their day with a wave and a smile, an innocent interaction between neighbors that has grown into an observed understanding, until one day he crosses the street and things begin to change. Modern AU Outlaw Queen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She's beautiful, stunning even, as she crosses her threshold, briefcase balanced precariously in her hand as she pulls the door to and locks the bolt. Her keys slip back into their home inside her right jacket pocket before she turns around and smiles; the fingers now free of keys lift in a delicate wave before tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

He grins, the hand not wrapped around his coffee mug lifting to wave back at her just as it has done almost every morning for the last five months. This is their routine, safe, comfortable, and bloody frustrating.

You can learn a lot from watching someone for that long, months of goodbye kisses to her son as he rushes for the school bus, business meetings heralded by slightly higher heels and straighter skirts, sick days wrapped in fluffy sweaters and soft slippers. Yet most of his learning has been from afar, miles of imagination filling in the blanks left by the scant 100 feet between their two front yards

Today must be a good day; she's wearing a pair of pointed 4 inch heels that accentuate the sinful expanse of her stocking coated legs visible below the hemline of her black pencil skirt. He thinks he sees a glimpse of burgundy silk below her suit jacket as she saunters towards her car; she looks amazing in that color, it compliments the olive tones of her skin, the soft whiskey brown of her eyes. Her hair is down, soft curls framing her face in perfect bouncing waves as she deposits her briefcase in the passenger seat and slides behind the wheel. Yes, today is definitely a good day, but that's not always the case.

Some days the heels aren't as high, the skirts not quite as short. Some mornings she leaves her home with her fingers wrapped around the end of a cane, structured business suits swapped for flowing dresses or loose wide-leg pants and cashmere tops, anything that won't irritate her skin or torture tender muscles and joints. Those days her makeup is more deliberate, layers of foundation and concealer slathered on to cover the red flush of her cheeks until all that's left is what appears to be a healthy glow.

He knows the truth, the words she is unwilling to say. He understands the distance she builds up between herself and the world brick by torturous brick, but he wants to explain how unnecessary it is, how she doesn't need to hide from him, he wants to hold her and reassure her until she believes what he already knows--she is stunning, in every way--but instead he sips his coffee, waves one last time as she pulls out of the drive, and carries on with his day.

***

She checks her watch one more time, 8:15 on the dot. She pours out the remainder of her coffee before rinsing out the purple butterfly mug Henry gave her for her last birthday and placing it gently in the top rack of the dishwasher. Snagging her suit jacket off its place draped along the back of her chair, she pads through the house to the front entrance. 

She eyes her shoe rack carefully, mentally cataloging every ache and pain, deciding whether her hips and knees can tolerate the pressure of standing in heels if she doesn't get a seat at the morning briefing. The rest of her agenda rattles through her brain, a client meeting at eleven, lunch date at noon, research and filing, picking Henry up from soccer, then groceries and supper as she decides, yes, she can handle the heels today. She selects a pair of pointed, four inch maroon heels with a chunky ankle strap (the extra support might help if she gets to the briefing room too late and ends up standing) that compliment her blouse.

Shrugging on her jacket she checks her appearance in the hall mirror, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her skirt and touching up her lipstick before snagging her briefcase and opening the door to face the day; to face _him_. 

He must be working from home today; he's still in his plaid pajama pants, a thin gray robe hanging from his shoulders with a pale blue t-shirt underneath that highlights his ocean colored eyes. He looks cozy and soft, like a comfortable place to land at the end of the day, as if he's completely at home in his own skin and for a moment she feels a spark of envy curl up her spine, but only for a moment. 

He's smiling at her, he's always smiling at her in a way that makes her stomach fill with butterflies and her face flush with something other than illness. She smiles back, waving hello as she does every morning before tucking a stubborn piece of hair blowing across her eyes behind her ear. 

She can feel the warm caress of his gaze as she walks over to her Benz, the way his eyes follow her every move as she slides into her seat and closes the door, disappearing into the quiet shelter of her car. It normally makes her feel vulnerable, to be _seen_ so openly and so often, but something about him feels oddly familiar, safe almost. She closes her eyes as she waits for the heat to warm through the vehicle and imagines what it would be like to wave goodbye after leaving him in the morning, to walk up his pathway at the end of the day and fall into open arms and the smell of his cologne. 

Okay, now she is losing it. Whatever pills they have her on this course must be messing with her emotions, her hormones, _something_. 

Shaking it off she squares her shoulders and pulls out of the drive. Turning back to look at him one last time, waving quickly, she drives away from the fantasy of a life she imagines for five minutes at the start and finish of every day, ready to face the complications of reality.


	2. Broken Glass

It's the week before Halloween and the front porches along their street are awash with autumn color. Carved jack-o-lanterns and brightly colored gourds spill over steps and walkways, skeletons hang like ghostly wind chimes from doorways and banisters, and windows drip with fake spider webs.  The air is soaked with the scent of wood smoke and decaying foliage, warm spices, and the icy crispness of the approaching cold.

 

It’s calm, peaceful; the perfect Sunday weather for curling up with an oversized mug of hot chocolate (with cinnamon, of course) and a good book by the fireplace.  Henry is sprawled on his stomach on the rug in front of her, eagerly flicking through a stack of comic books, pajama-clad legs swinging lazily in the air.  She's just cracked the spine of her newest novel, one of the trashy romance ones she reads on the weekends, but not a full fledged bodice-ripper, she doesn't read those in front of Henry, when the crackling splinter of breaking glass sounds in the hallway.

 

"Mom! What was that?"  

 

She's already on her feet, (thankful her joints have decided to behave today), book tossed aside before Henry can even sit up to try and investigate.

 

"Stay here," she hisses, grabbing the poker from the fireplace and hefting it like a bat, fingers curling and flexing around the cold metal until she finds a comfortable grip. If someone is trying to break into her house, they're going to get a face-full of iron for their trouble before they get anywhere near _her_ son.

 

Her heart is hammering in her chest, adrenaline pumping through her veins as she rounds the corner in the hallway, half expecting to find someone lurking around the stairs or forcing their way through the door, but all she finds is a spray of broken glass from the entryway window glittering in the sunlight and a beat up baseball on the hall rug.

 

"What the?" she wonders, setting the poker down to lean against the wall.  

 

"Henry? Can you get the broom and the dustpan from the kitchen closet?" she calls reaching to pick up the ball.  Some of the neighborhood kids must have been playing catch or having a little batting practice and the ball must have gotten away from them.  She'll clean up the glass and then go out and have a word with them (or possibly their parents), but before Henry can bring her the broom from the kitchen the sing songy chime of the doorbell rings.

 

She leans a little, trying to catch a glimpse of who it might be through the gaping hole in the glass, but all she sees is sunlight and the neighbor's front yard in the distance. She knots the tie on her robe, doing her best to cover the floral print of the pajamas Henry gave her last year for mother’s day with the soft grey jersey, stepping around as much of the glass as possible on the way to open the door.

She takes a deep breath, trying to remain as calm as possible, expecting to find whatever vandal shattered her lazy morning bubble, but there's no one there.  She's greeted by an empty porch, until she looks down to find  the curly haired, dimple-cheeked little hobbit of a child from next door grinning shyly up at her.   _Robin’s son_.  

 

He's in a pair of khaki cargo pants with a neon green Ninja Turtles t-shirt and a dark red eye mask.  Someone must be trying out their Halloween costume a little early. As she crouches down to his height, she notices two straps over his arms that lead around to a half-shell backpack. Yep, definitely a week-early Halloween outfit, but he looks adorable.

 

"Hello there," she coos, meeting his eyes through the mask. "Raphael, right?" she asks, afraid her Ninja Turtle knowledge has gotten rusty when his face screws up in confusion.

 

“I’m not Raphael, Miss Regina, I’m Roland.” He pouts, his lip turning down as he rocks back and forth on his heels.

 

“Are you sure?  I’ve never heard of Roland the Ninja Turtle,” she finishes, tapping the sides of his mask.

 

“Oh!  Sorry!” He pushes the mask up into his hair, his curls bending and bouncing in every direction as the elastic pulls and shifts.

 

“That’s better,” she smiles.  “What can I do for you, Roland?”

 

"Papa sent me over to apol...abpal,..apologize."  He struggles around the word, nodding his head with every attempt as if he can force it out by sheer momentum.

 

"Apologize? What for?"

 

"For breaking your window," he mumbles, suddenly fascinated with the velcro of his light-up sneakers.

 

"You did that?" she asks, voice raising at the end in disbelief.  Their front yard is a few hundred feet away, and Roland, as tiny as he is, can't be more that 6 or 7 years old; there is no way he threw a baseball that far and hard enough to shatter her window.

 

"I'm afraid he did." The much older, accented reply startles her. “Or more accurately, the pitching machine he’s not supposed to touch did.”

 

She looks up to find Robin walking up the drive, hands in his pockets, watching his son with the expectant eyes of a father.  

 

"And what do you have to say to Ms. Regina about it young man?" he questions, stern and leading.

 

"I'm sorry, Miss Regina," the boy parrots. "I didn't mean to."

 

"I'm sure you didn't, sweetheart," she says, "and thank you for the apology."

 

"We'll pay for the window of course," Robin offers.  “I’ve got some things in the garage we can use to patch over it until a repairman can come come out.”  

 

“Thank you.” She smiles, standing back to her full height.

 

"And Roland, here, will be happy to come by after school to do whatever chores you need doing around the house for the next two weeks."

 

"Two weeks?" Roland whines, turning to look at his father, the turtle shell backpack swinging back and forth with his movement.

 

"Two weeks," he states, with no room for argument.

 

"And you can start by helping her clean up the mess you've made.”  He raises his eyebrows, looking to her before adding, “That is, if Ms. Regina doesn’t mind?”  

 

"No, the help would be nice, thank you," she manages to stammer out, still shocked that he's standing here, on her front porch, while she's in her pajamas. Oh God, she's in her pajamas, with no makeup on and Sunday morning air-dried hair; perfect, just perfect.  She tries to sneak a peek at her reflection in the glass of the front door, hoping her skin isn’t too red, that the rash hasn’t flared up with all of the excitement, but she can’t quite see.

 

Oh well, too late now.  He’s already seen her.

 

This isn’t how she imagined inviting him into her home for the first time, she should be ashamed of how many times and ways she _has_ imagined inviting him in or starting a conversation with him, but they’re here now. She warns Roland to be careful of the glass, swallowing a groan as she steps aside to let them pass.

 

*******

 

He should be horrified, stumbling over himself apologizing for his son’s behavior and the damage he’s caused, not thinking about how adorable she is in her slouchy pajama pants and over-sized grey robe.  She looks soft and small; he's never noticed how small she is before. Most of his interactions with her are with an expanse of asphalt in between them while she’s rushing to and from work.  Quick hellos as they get the paper in the mornings or the mail in the evenings, greetings across the lawn as the boys get on and off the school bus, and then there is the morning wave, their little daily ritual, but they haven’t had that many prolonged, up-close conversations.    

 

She usually wears heels, chunky leather boots or thin dangerous spikes curving her calves and raising her height, but today she's in slippers, shuffling along the hallway, fidgeting with the tie of her robe and tucking her hair behind her ear.  He wants to tell her she can stop, that she doesn't need to feel self-conscious around him, that's she's beautiful just as she is, fresh-faced and pajama clad, but that's probably a bit much, especially after she's only invited him in because his son shattered her front window.

 

_Keep it together, Locksley._

 

“How did a little guy like you launch a ball that far, kiddo?” He hears Henry ask, the question knocking him out of his reverie and bringing him back to the task at hand.  

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“Roland,” he warns, throwing a look at his son.

 

“Well _I_ didn’t,” the boy argues, “it was the ball machine.”

 

“But who loaded the pitching machine and cut it on, without permission or supervision?”

 

“Me,” he grumbles.

 

“You have your own pitching machine?” Henry asks, perking up.

 

“I have it for work,” Robin answers, “to help some of my clients who are training to get back into playing after an injury, but sometimes Roland and I crank it up on the weekends to work on his hitting.”

 

“That’s so cool!”

 

“You’re welcome to come over and try it out sometime, with your mother’s permission of course.” He directs the last line to her, smiling when she raises her eyebrow and her lips tip up in a grin.

 

He was prepared for her to be furious, demanding and yelling about her damaged window, but instead she’s invited them in, chatting with his son, guiding him away from the shards of glass with a gentle hand as she takes the broom and dustpan from Henry’s hands before instructing him to pull the vacuum cleaner out from the closet.

 

“Can I Mom? Please?” The boy is practically vibrating with excitement as he asks, eyes going wide and soft like a begging puppy.

 

“We’ll see,” she starts, cutting off his impending protest with a single raised finger. “If you’ve finished your homework and Mr. Locksley has a free day, I’m sure we can arrange something.”

 

“Yes!” The boy whoops, hugging his mother around the middle.  She lets out an _oof_ at the sudden contact, before recovering with a quick chuckle, her hand coming up to rest along the back of his head.  

 

“Okay kiddo, let’s get this mess cleaned up.” She sighs, mussing Henry’s hair as he lets her go.

 

“Please, let me.  It’s the least I can do,” Robin offers, trying to pluck the broom from her fingers.

 

“No, really Robin you don’t have to…” She stops as his hand covers hers on the broom handle.

 

“Please.  I insist.” He tries to give her his most charming smile, resisting the urge to rub his thumb along her knuckles as her eyes move from his face to their hands on the broom handle and back again.

 

“Well,” she clears her throat, breaking the moment. “If you insist, then by all means.” She releases the broom and dustpan, gesturing down the hallway.

 

“I do.” He gives her fully dimpled smile, pleased when she returns it with one of her own. “ And I’m sorry for the interruption, I know Roland has already apologised, but I wanted to say something on behalf of the both of us.  I’m sure this isn’t how you planned on spending your morning.”

 

“Nothing like a little assumed breaking and entering to get the blood flowing in the morning,” she quips.

 

“Ah, is that why the fireplace poker is resting against the wall in the hallway?” He nods to where the iron rod is still leaning, watching as the color rises in her cheeks.

 

“Yes. Well.  We don’t all have pitching machines to defend ourselves from invading neighbors.”

 

“Touché, milady.”

 

“Too soon?”

 

“No, no. I’m just going to slither home filled with shame and mortification.”

 

“I doubt you have ever slithered anywhere in your entire life.” She raises one perfect eyebrow in challenge.

 

“We’ve all done things in the past we regret,” he jokes, trying to keep the mood light, but something flickers behind her eyes and his mouth turns down just a bit.  He must have hit a nerve.

 

“Anyway,” he says, trying to change the subject, wanting to chase the hooded look from her face before it has a chance to settle in.  “Let’s get cleaning young man.” he hands Roland the dust pan.

 

“You can go back in the other room if you want, Henry, we can handle this,” she says, leaning against the wall to supervise their cleaning efforts.

 

“Nah, it’s okay,” Henry replies, leaning down showing Roland how to hold the dustpan against the floor as Robin carefully sweeps the shards of glass into it. “I don’t mind helping.”

 

They’re good with each other, Henry and Roland, getting along and chattering as they take the dustpan to the bin in the kitchen to throw out the glass.  Maybe he and Regina should set up a playdate for the two of them after Roland has served his two weeks of chores sentence.

 

“I think that should do for now, thank you.”  She takes the broom from him as she talks, placing it back in the closet. “I was planning on cleaning today anyway, so I’ll give everything a vacuum after you leave to get any pieces we may have missed.”  He follows, leaning in the door jam as she pulls a pad of paper and a pen from one of the kitchen drawers.  

 

“Here’s my number,” she says, scribbling her name and a number on the piece of paper, ripping it off and handing it to him. “We can work out a schedule for Roland to come over after school and talk over the arrangements to get the window repaired.”

 

Henry clears his throat, looking over at her with a whining _aanndd._

 

“And,” she laughs, “Possibly set up a day for Henry to come over for some batting practice with you, but only if you’re sure it’s not a bother.” She bumps her shoulder against her boy’s, lips spreading in a wide smile to match his.  

 

“No trouble at all.  And I’ll call someone about the window as soon as I get home and get back to you,” he promises, tucking the folded piece of paper with her number on it in his back pocket.  “Say goodbye Roland.”

 

“Bye Miss Regina, Henry.  Sorry again.”

 

“Accidents happen,” she shrugs, opening the door to see them out.  

 

“I’ll call you later,” he nods, ushering Roland out in front of him, looking back to smile and wave as they cross the road. She waves back, closing the door and heading back inside.  

 

When they get back across the street he sends Roland into the house while he heads into the garage to gather a few things so he can put a patch over the hole in Regina’s window until someone can properly fix it.  The situation’s not ideal, he wouldn’t have chosen Roland blatantly disobeying him and accidentally breaking her window as a way of opening conversation, but he’s not sorry it happened.    

 

He pulls the paper out of his pocket, tracing over her number and the delicate scrawl of her name. Two weeks of phone calls and odd jobs isn’t a bad start, a lot can change in two weeks. They’ve spent the last few months waving and smiling, having casual conversations between driveways and drop offs, but there’s always been a spark of something possible underneath. Maybe all they needed was something to force them beyond the barrier of polite conversation and neighborly proprietary, or maybe his hopeful illusion will shatter like the splintered pane of glass in her entryway; there’s only one way to find out.

  
  



	3. Waiting Rooms and Pack Lunches

Same cardiologist, same uncomfortable chairs. The burgundy pleather sticks and squeaks, the cushions stiff and unforgiving to creaky, painful joints. She sighs, pulling her book from her bag. 

 

Let the wait begin.

 

She detests hospitals. Loathes and despises them.

 

The lights are too bright, the hallways are too bare, everything smells of antiseptic and bleach and the sweet, sickly decay of the dying.

 

Everyone smiles at you in an overly cautious way, as if to say, " _ Are you the patient?" _ or " _ Are you here passing the days in an interminable vigil by a bedside? Do you know if it's day or night? Have you seen the outside world?" _

 

It's unsettling, the lack of humanity present in a place that deals with the most human aspects: birth, vulnerability, and death.

 

Unfortunately, she spends a considerable amount of time in hospitals, especially recently, so she's had to find ways to cope. It's become a bit of a game really. On mornings when she arrives too early for appointments, when traffic was a bit lighter than expected and she finds herself with an extra thirty minutes before she has to trudge down the hallway to disrobe and be poked and prodded, she wanders into the little cafeteria at the end of the ward and watches.

 

She orders a medium skinny latte, or on rare occasions, she splurges and gets a rich, dark chocolate mocha and a slice of gluten free cake, sits back in a quiet corner and observes.

 

Doctors and nurses wander in and out, bustling to get their necessary caffeine fix, discussing patients or personal entanglements; visitors filter in like zombies, the hollow look of the vigilant fogging their eyes and loosening their limbs; chaplains quietly serve themselves from the coffee counter at the side before reentering the drudgery of last rights and comforting prayers.

 

Snippets of conversations float around her as people come and go, empty half sentences drifting away for her to construct endings or stitch together stories of her own imagining. It's entertaining, in a morbid sort of way, but she'll take what she can get. 

 

When the hands on the clock slide to fifteen past, she gathers her things, tidies her table and makes the long walk down the hallway to whatever torture awaits for the day.  

 

Today, luckily, is just a routine check up, nothing overly taxing.  She’ll be weighed and measured by the intake nurse before being escorted to the cubicle across the reception area for a urine sample. Then she’ll join the scattered gathering of patients in the waiting area in the back until her name is called and she’s shuffled into a private room covered with depressingly bad ‘art’ where she’ll wait some more. 

 

One of the other nurses will wander in, probably fifteen minutes later, strap an itchy cuff around her arm that will swell and constrict until it pinches just shy of painfully, reading her blood pressure and heart rate on the little electronic monitor near by.  As the cuff is removed she’ll roll up her shirt sleeves and turn her face away as a needle is slid into the vein at her elbow; the poster on the wall will become suddenly  _ fascinating  _ as she tries not to look while three to eight vials of blood are drawn, capped, and neatly labeled depending on what tests they have to run this time.

 

It’s a routine, an uncomfortably familiar ritual she endures every three months, but what other choice does she have? 

 

She looks up from her book as an older couple shuffles in, joining her in the antiseptic-scented purgatory.  She watches for a moment, eyes flicking between them and the pages; it's impolite to stare, but people watching is one of the only entertainments to days like this.

 

There's a softness to the two of them, an air of familiarity bred from decades spent sharing the same air, as if they've always come as a pair. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, crinkled eyes smiling at her with so much warmth she feels like an intruder watching the exchange. He holds her elbow as she sits, lowering her into the seat with practiced precision before settling himself, tucking her securely under his arm.

 

She feels a pang of longing, the phantom want of something she'll never have. She turns back into her book, blurry eyes making the words swim and swirl before her. She's not even sure if she longs for the hand to hold or the elusive promise of old age everyone else takes for granted.

Not that it matters. She won't be blessed with either one.

 

“Miss Mills? The doctor will see you now.” 

 

She closes her book and tucks it into her bag, leaving the couple and her self pity behind as she follows the nurse into the exam room.

 

**…**

 

He blearily smears peanut butter and jelly onto slices of white bread, squishing them together, wiping the bits that squirt out the sides of the crust away with his finger, licking away the salty-sweet remnants.  He cuts the finished sandwich into little triangles before sliding it into a clear baggie, tucking the edges and plopping it into the brown paper lunch bag on the counter that’s already filled with apple juice, carrot sticks, and a fruit roll-up.  He neatly folds the top of the bag, securing the lovingly (if somewhat sloppily) made lunch inside and swallows around the yawn threatening to split his face. 

 

He looks out the window to the house across the road, searching for the soft amber glow from a window, hoping that maybe she’s awake too, but he’s disappointed to find nothing but darkness. Her car isn’t in the drive, she must have gone in early today to prep for a meeting or drop Henry off for an early sports practice.  He’ll miss his morning wave, but he’ll get to see her this afternoon when he picks Roland up after he finishes his grounding induced chores to make up for breaking her window over the weekend. At least he thinks he will...they haven’t discussed particulars since that afternoon. 

 

He fishes his phone from the pocket of his sweats, thumbing through his contacts until he finds her number.  He types out a quick, ‘Hey, we still on for this afternoon? And by ‘we’ I mean Roland…’ before quickly erasing it and closing the message.  It’s too early to bother her now, especially with a message that idiotic. 

 

He needs coffee, an obscene amount of it to rinse away the sleep-drunk fog he’s muddling through, but that will have to wait until after he wakes Roland for school.

 

It always surprises him how a boy who looks so peaceful in slumber, who can be sweet and thoughtful in his waking hours, who fills his world with crayon drawings, sticky fingers and butterfly kisses, giggles and dimples, can be such a  _ monster _ in the morning.  He’s surly and stubborn in the predawn darkness, clinging to his teddy bear and pouting until he’s had enough time to fully shake off sleep.  _ Just like his mother, _ Robin thinks as he trudges up the stairs to wake the beast. 

 

The rest of the morning is an exercise in chaos, wrestling Roland out of his pajamas and into a pair of camel colored cargo pants, a button down plaid shirt and a light sweater thrown over to keep him warm (but that can be removed if the school has the heat cranked to the gates of hell level they usually do in the late fall/early winter), brushing and rinsing tiny teeth (and wondering yet again if he should be teaching his boy to floss or if he’s still too young), then hastily shoving his homework and books into an offensively neon Ninja Turtle backpack before ushering the boy downstairs with the promise of Eggos for breakfast.  As he expected, Roland plops himself on the floor in the foyer, arms folded and immobile, refusing to tie his shoes as Robin plucks the freshly toasted frozen waffles that have the audacity to call themselves food from the toaster, tossing them from hand to hand until they cool enough to be touched.   

 

“Roland James Locksley, you will tie your shoes.” He fixes him with his sternest stare, trying to fill his voice with enough authority to cover the yawn threatening to bubble forth.  It’s too damn early for this.

 

“Nuh-uh.” The boy sasses back, curls bouncing as he shakes his head back and forth. 

 

“Roland, we do not have time for this,” he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

 

_ Beep, beep! _

 

“Perfect,” he grumbles as he pops his head out the door to wave the bus on, he’ll just have to drive Roland to school today.  

 

It’s days like this that he misses having Marian in the house; he envies the way she could coax Roland from sleep with a few murmured words and the soft touch of a mother.  He misses having an extra set of hands to help him pick clothes and make breakfast.  They had split long before Roland started school last year, but he still feels her absence, the sense of something  _ missing _ in the disorder of daily life. 

 

“Eat your breakfast,” he hands over the toasted waffle as he crouches down and ties Roland’s shoes. 

 

“Thank you,” the boy murmurs around a mouthful.  “Sorry I missed the bus.”

 

“It’s okay, I woke you a bit later today than normal, but we can’t keep having mornings like this my boy, understand?” He waits until Roland nods in agreement before standing, knees popping after spending too long folded and compressed. “Come on, grab your bag so I can drive you to school.” 

 

They stagger out the front door, Robin still in his sweatpants and a thin t-shirt and Roland tottering along behind, finally starting to wake into a more pleasant mood. 

 

When they’re almost to the school Roland pipes up from the backseat, “Papa, what did you pack me for lunch today?” 

 

Robin groans, realizing that in the manic rush of tying shoelaces and missed buses he’s left Roland’s lunch on the kitchen counter. “I’m sorry my boy, but I’ve left your lunch bag on the counter.  You’ll have to have the cafeteria meal today.” 

 

“Aw, but Papa, it’s salisbury steak day,” he grouses, face scrunching up in disgust. It would almost be funny, adorable even, if Robin’s nerves weren’t already on edge from the scattered morning they’d had, a stinging retort tingles on the edge of his tongue, but he bites it back, taking a deep breath as he pulls into the school parking lot. 

 

“You can always get a peanut butter and jelly instead, they always offer that as an alternative.  That’s what I’d packed for you today anyway, so there won’t be much difference.”  He pulls a few crumpled bills from his wallet and passes them back to his son, telling him to have a good day at school and he’ll see him later that afternoon. 

 

He watches for a moment as his boy walks across the lot, running to catch up with his friends, chatting and smiling as they enter the school as if the last thirty hectic minutes never happened. It’s another way he’s like his mother, he just lets things roll off of him and carries on; they both choose to live in the happy moments instead of dwelling on the stress.  It’s one of the things he loves about them, that he  _ loved _ about Marian.  She’s not his to love anymore.  

 

Enough of that.  He shakes off the sudden gloom, the ever-present ache of loneliness he’s been swallowing down more and more lately, before driving away to face the rest of his day.  

**...**

 

It’s mid afternoon when he sees her black Benz coming down the street.  He’s been working in the yard, taking advantage of the mild weather to tidy the lawn and trim back the hedges, but the time must have gotten away from him.  He checks his watch, surprised to find it only 3:30; she’s never home this early.  He waves, gesturing in a way that hopefully makes it clear he wants to talk to her for a minute. She nods through the glass, tossing her hand up in a quick wave as she pulls into the drive. 

 

Plucking his gardening gloves from his hands and tossing them aside, he runs his fingers through his hair quickly and dusts the dirt from his jeans before jogging over to her half of Winthrop Street. But the friendly greeting waiting on his tongue dies away when he sees her properly, through the now open car door. 

 

Her skin is pale, dark patches of grey bleeding through the concealer caked around her eyes giving her a ghoulish appearance, her usual perfectly styled hair traded for a loose ponytail at the base of her neck.  She looks bone tired, her movements sluggish and stilted as she slides out of the driver’s seat and carefully swings the door shut, teetering a bit as she tries to keep her balance.  

 

He pretends not to notice the way she tugs at her sleeve, covering the bandaid plastered at the join of her elbow, the mottled purple bruise blooming from beneath its edges. 

 

“Robin. Hello,” she breathes in greeting, giving her shirt sleeve another tug for good measure.  Her voice sounds as tired as she looks, thin and airy, as if it takes all the energy she can muster to force the words out. 

 

“Hi,” he answers lamely, as everything he wanted to discuss with her about Roland coming over and organizing a schedule, is crowded out of his mind by the sudden urge to make sure if she’s alright. 

 

“Was there something you wanted?” 

 

“You.”  _ Bollocks. _ “I mean, you don’t look well,” he recovers, fumbling over his words, but pleased when he sees his little slip has brought a sliver of a smile to her face. 

 

“Thanks,” she snorts, circling to the back of the car opening the trunk to reveal several bags of groceries piled high with shining apples and curly kale, boxes of cereal, bottles of water, and various other necessities, and on the far right side a large orange pumpkin (for her to carve with Henry he assumes).

 

“I didn’t mean it like that…”

 

“I know,” she smiles warmly. “Besides, you’ve seen better days yourself.”  

 

He stares at her for a moment, confused, until her hand comes up and wipes at something smudged along his forehead. “Dirt really isn’t your color.” 

 

_ Smooth Locksley, not only have you been staring at her like a wordless buffoon, but you’ve been doing it with a facefull of dirt the whole time.  _

 

“You’re right, I have more of a ‘mud and forest foliage’ coloring.” She laughs at that, a deep, infectious chuckle that compels him to join her. 

 

“Well, now that we’ve gotten that straightened out, what can I do for you?” 

 

“Oh, right.  I just wanted to see if it would be okay if Roland started his chores tomorrow instead of today,” he rambles, hoping this sounds rehearsed and not the improvisation it is to try and give her a way out of dealing with his son when she’s clearly not feeling well. 

 

“Does this have anything to do with the fact that I ‘don’t look well,’ as you said earlier?” She narrows her eyes, almost daring him to contradict her. “Because I promise you, I’m fine.”

 

“No, not at all,” he reassures quickly, stalling to think of a reason that isn’t a lie.  He likes her, finds her charming and clever, he’d rather not start their acquaintance by being dishonest with her, no matter how small the lie.  “I just remembered Roland has a book report due next week, and he’s been struggling a bit with the assignment.  I wanted to take a little time with him today while I’m off to go over it with him. If that’s alright with you?” It’s not the whole truth, but it’s not a lie either; Roland does have a book report and his boy does find the written word to be a bit of a challenge. 

 

“Of course.  School always comes first,” she agrees quickly.  “He can start tomorrow after school.  If you’d like he can go home first to work on his homework and come by after, or he’s welcome to come by right after school and I’ll give him time to work on his homework and a little snack like I do with Henry?” 

 

“You don’t need to do that, this is supposed to be a punishment for him damaging your window, not a way for me to get free tutoring and babysitting.”

 

“I suggested it,” she shrugs.  “Just think about it and let me know; the offer is there.” 

 

“Thank you.” He nods, flashing her his best dimpled smile. “Now, can I help you carry these inside?”

 

“Robin, I’m…”

 

“Fine.” They say it together, she fixes him with a slight glare, clearly unhappy with being so predictable. “You’re fine, I know.  I was just trying to be polite. Chivalry isn’t dead and all that.” 

 

She hesitates for a moment, eyes flickering between him and the load of groceries and what appears to be a very heavy pumpkin, before looking back at him.  “Okay. But only if you’re sure.” 

 

“Positive.  Besides, that pumpkin looks like it’s half your size.  How did you even get it in the car?” 

 

“I have my ways.” 

 

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” He winks, grinning when he sees a faint blush bringing some color into her cheeks. Leaning over he hefts the pumpkin into his arms following her as she leads him into the house and directs him to leave it on the kitchen table. 

 

She wobbles a bit as they turn to walk back toward the front of the house, white knuckling the edge of the counter until she regains her balance.  

 

“Why don’t you wait here and unpack the bag on the counter? I can go back to the car and get the other bags?” he offers, trying not to sound overly concerned.  

 

She fixes him with that same look of mistrustful indecision, before caving and nodding her approval, mumbling a quick,  _ thank you. _

 

Something is clearly not right, but she’s giving every impression she doesn’t want to talk about it, and it’s not his place to ask, not yet.  He’s known her for six months, twenty six long weeks filled with morning waves and afternoon greetings, polite conversations about school systems and the weather, but as he pulls the last three bags of groceries from her trunk, awkwardly closing the lid with his elbow, he realises that he really doesn’t  _ know  _ her at all.   

**…**

 

She shuts the door behind him as he leaves, leaning against the solid wood for a moment breathing against the dizziness buzzing through her brain.  She’s fine. She is  _ fine. _ She just needs to breathe.  And eat something; her body just needs to recover from the vials of blood it’s been drained of. 

 

That’s what she’ll do.  She’ll have a snack and sit for a moment in the quiet. She’ll wait for the shaking in her hands to settle, for some of the strength the morning has zapped from her to return.  She’ll stick herself back together like she’s always done, so when Henry comes home in a little over an hour she’ll be steady and sturdy and  _ Mom _ instead of a patient, instead of the woman who needs help carrying in groceries, instead of the version of herself she saw reflected in Robin’s concerned blue eyes.  

 

Pushing off the door she staggers back to the kitchen, a determined whisper of,  _ “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine,” _ with every step, until she convinces herself that she is. 


	4. Comic Books and Cane Stickers

Tuesday morning arrives in a storm of chaos.

 

Roland was late getting to school-- _again_ \--because of a missing sock emergency.  Robin will never understand why it had to be _that_ sock, why his son couldn’t just wear a different pair, or slightly mismatched socks for one bloody day, but it’s too late to worry about that now. The great missing sock debacle was followed quickly by two clients calling and insisting on last minute appointments when he already had a packed schedule, so now he’s trying to find a way to add two extra hours into an already overbooked day and it’s not even 9:00 am yet.

 

By 8:45 he’s managed to rearrange a few things and book the rooms he needs, but with the added appointments there is no way he’ll be home when Roland gets out of school.  He’s already called Nanny Lucas, the older lady who lives down the street who watches Roland on afternoons when he has to stay late for work, but she already had plans for the day. She gave him the name of two other neighborhood girls to call, but they’d been dead ends too. He’s about to give up, to just call it a day and go back to bed, when he spies the piece of paper with Regina’s number tacked to the fridge like a beacon of hope.

 

So that’s how Robin finds himself on Tuesday morning, dashing around his house hastily packing his bag for work, listening as the phone balanced in the crook of his shoulder _ring ring rings_ while he prays she picks up.  He’s about to hang up and resign himself to struggling through the rest of this miserable day when her voice filters through the other end of the line.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Remember that offer you made to get Roland after school for homework and snacks before his chore duty?”

 

“Yes,” she draws the word out, suspicion coating the additional syllables, lifting up at the end as if questioning the trap she must know she’s walking into.

 

“Is that still on the table?  I’m sorry to ask,” he stumbles out, blurting apologies and excuses before she has a chance to answer, “but I’ve just been called into work for an emergency session with a client and my day is going to run past 2:30 when the boys are usually getting out of school.  I already tried calling his usual sitter and she had other plans, and I can’t leave in the middle of a session to pick him up and bring him here. I’m so sorry. I’ll find some way of making this up to you. I…”

 

“Woah, woah, woah. Slow down.” She laughs, an airy exhalation, and he can almost feel her smile through the phone. He must sound like a moron. A _desperate_ moron at that. “Of course it’s okay. I offered, didn’t I?”  

 

“Yes, but I had no intention of taking you up on it.  This was supposed to be a punishment, to teach Roland the responsibility of his actions.”

 

“I’m glad to know you think spending time with me and my son is a punishment,” she says, voice low and even.

 

_Perfect._ Open mouth, insert foot.  

 

“I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just,” he finishes the thought with a pathetic groan that would be mortifying if not for the chuckle she gives in response.

 

“It’s fine, I know what you meant. But it was entertaining watching, well, listening to you squirm a bit.”

 

“You’re ruthless, you know that?”

 

“So I’ve been told.” The warmth is back in her voice again, rich and low like thick lashes of honey. “Does Roland have any dietary restrictions or allergies I need to know about? Any routines I need to follow or be aware of?”

 

“No, he eats just about anything.  He’s not a huge fan of asparagus or grapefruit, but other than that he’s a pretty easy kid.” He’s still running around haphazardly grabbing things for work while they talk--a spare shirt from the pile of clean laundry on the sofa, the stack of client files on the counter, a banana from the fruit bowl he can choke down on the drive in--so he’s only half listening.

 

“Well darn, I’d planned to have asparagus salad with a side of grapefruit mousse as snack for the kids this afternoon.”

 

“Oh. Well, I’m sure that will be fine,” he says, hoping he sounds convincing. “He can pick at it or he’ll be fine until supper.”

 

“Robin?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I was kidding.”

 

“Oh. Oh!” He laughs, relieved. _He’s cocking this all up._

 

“You really are stressed about this, aren’t you?”

 

“That easy to tell, huh?” he asks, tripping over a sneaker Roland left laying in the middle of the hallway. He bites back a swear as he kicks the shoe aside, reaching for his keys as Regina replies.

 

“Just a bit. Don’t worry, we’ll be fine.  I’ll make sure your boy is fed after school and has some time to do his homework, and then I’ll find some sort of ‘punishment’ for him to do around the house. Possibly cleaning the front windows. Or putting Henry’s soccer workouts in the wash.”

 

“That doesn’t seem like much of a punishment.”

 

“It is. Trust me. You haven’t smelled pre-teen boy soccer socks. One load of that and Roland will have more than worked off his debt, I guarantee.”

 

“I trust your judgement.” He checks his watch, 9:10. He’s late. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go.”

 

“Of course, duty calls.”

 

“Thank you again, really. I owe you.”

 

“I’ll see you this evening, good luck with the rest of your day.”

 

He mumbles out a quick, _You too,_ before hanging up and rushing out the door to face the rest of his day.

 

**...**

 

She’s still feeling a bit off on Tuesday so she decides to work from home. The weather has turned, giving the air an icy snap that’s left a sparkling coating of frost on the front lawn and an ache in her joints. It’s the perfect weather for staying inside, spending her day wrapped in a slouchy cable-knit sweater and soft grey yoga pants, curled on the sofa answering work emails as the fire slowly thaws her joints, sipping cups of cocoa from her favourite mug as her toes wiggle warmly in a pair of fuzzy polka-dot socks.  

 

At least that was the plan, until she got the call from a slightly stressed Robin asking if she'd be willing to take Roland right after school.  It doesn't change much of her day; he would have been coming over a few hours later to do chores anyway (she still has to think of something to give the boy to do...), but it means she has to leave the house after all. She has enough stuff on hand to scrounge up a snack for Henry, but not enough to stretch and feed two growing boys.  She takes it easy in the morning, gradually coaxing herself into the day, working through all of her emails and two conference calls comfortably ensconced in the corner of the couch, before trading her yoga pants and fuzzy socks for a pair of stretch skinny jeans and comfy leather boots.  

 

By the time she makes it home from the grocery store and starts prepping plates of apple slices with thick smears of peanut butter, crispy bagel chips, chunks of sharp cheddar cheese, and bunches of grapes, it’s already 3:15 in the afternoon. She pulls a pan from the bottom cabinet and pours a generous serving of cider into it--tossing in a couple of cinnamon sticks and a piece of star anise into it for spice--and sets it on the stove over a low flame so the boys can have cups of hot cider when they get off the bus.  The mixture has just started to simmer, the scent spreading through the house making the air smell warm and cosy despite the lingering chill the central heating hasn’t quite conquered, when the door swings open and the boys come tumbling in out of the cold, shedding coats, scarves and shoes in a scattered line on the way to the kitchen.   

 

“Mom, we’re home!” Henry bellows down the hallway, before sliding into the kitchen in a sock-footed skid.

 

“I can see that,” she laughs, pulling Henry into a quick hug, pressing a kiss to his hair before shoving him lightly toward the stools at the breakfast bar. “Snacks are on the counter. Roland,” she turns to the boy who is shuffling in behind Henry, sock covered feet kicking against the tiles as if he’s waiting to be read his last rites. “I wasn’t sure what you like, so I have an assortment of things.”

 

“I get a snack too?”

 

“Of course you do, why wouldn’t you?”

 

“I’m here because I’m in trouble, because I broked your window.”

 

“Broke,” she corrects out of habit before bending down and lifting the younger boy’s chin with a finger so she can look him in the eye. “And yes, your father and I agreed that you would come over and do a few things around the house to make up for the broken window, but you’re not a prisoner Roland. So, you get a snack and you get homework time, and 30 minutes of free reading just like Henry does.”

 

Roland screws up his face at the last bit, his nose scrunching in an adorable display of disgust. “I don’t like reading.”

  
“Well, maybe that’s because you haven’t found the right book yet,” she finishes with a tap to his nose, that pulls a little bubble of laughter out of him.  “Now, hop up and eat your snack.”

 

She munches on an apple while the boys eat their snacks. It seems they’ve become fast friends in the span of a single bus ride sat together on the way home today; they chatter and giggle, swapping stories from their day, groaning about math worksheets and homework assignments as they polish off the plates of food and the cider she set out for them.  When they’re done she clears their plates while they pull out their pencil cases and homework folders; they don’t have much to do, just some math and spelling sentence sheets for Henry and a science animal matching sheet and handwriting exercises for Roland.  

 

She cleans up while they work on their homework, loading the dishwasher, scrubbing the pot she used for the cider and leaving it to dry in the dish drainer, and quickly wiping down the countertops and around the sink. When she turns back around to check on them, Henry is leaning over, checking Roland’s paper, smiling and telling him what a good job he’s done and Roland just beams, his little chest puffing up with pride before they both go back to their separate assignments. She breathes through the ache it conjures in her chest, the ever-present worry that she has done Henry a disservice by being his mother, by denying him a traditional family with siblings and a father, and she needs to stop that line of thought right there before she starts crying in front of the boys.

 

Instead, she does what she does best: she carries on, drying her hands on the dish towel as she circles around the island to check their work with a watery smile.

 

When the boys finish their homework, they all move into the living room. Roland is still adamantly against reading time, so she gives him a duster and has him clean the bookshelves and the table tops for his ‘chore duty’ while Henry settles into the couch by the window with a stack of comics. She has a bit of copy-editing left to do for work, so she settles onto the opposite couch where she can keep an eye on both of them.  

 

Everything is fine for the first 20 minutes. She and Henry read while Roland cleans, but then she starts to notice that Roland’s ‘dusting’ is wandering closer and closer to where Henry is sitting reading his newest X-Men comic, until the end of the duster is just waving limply in the air as the younger boy stares down at the colorful pages over Henry’s shoulder.

 

“Roland,” she calls, looking over her reading glasses trying to bite back the smile at the adorable caught expression that filters over the boy’s face. “It might work a bit better if you actually _touch_ the table with the duster.”

 

“Sorry, Miss Regina.” His mouth tips down in a frown, his lower lip poking out just a bit and it sends a pang of guilt stabbing through her chest.

 

“It’s okay,” she soothes, smiling so he knows she’s not mad at him. “And Roland?”

 

“Yes ma’am?”

 

“You can call me Regina. Just Regina.” She appreciates the manners, she really does, but being called ‘miss’ constantly makes her feel like some kind of school marm.  

 

He perks back up a bit, shuffling over to wipe the end of the duster along the top of the side table, but his eyes keep darting back to the book in Henry’s hands.

 

“You know what? I think that’s enough for today.” She closes her book and pushes her glasses up to the top of her head, holding her hair back like a prescription headband. “Henry, can you go get my cane from the hallway? You know the one.”

 

“Sure, Mom.” Henry closes his comic and tosses it on the couch as he leaves the room. She can see Roland’s eyes flicking back and forth between the doorway Henry just left through and the discarded comic on the cushion, his little fingers flexing around the end of the duster as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he can snatch it up and take a quick peek, but she stops him before he has the chance.

 

“Roland, why don’t you come sit by me for a minute? I want to show you something.” She pats the couch cushion beside her and Roland climbs up, scootching over until he’s nestled in at her side. She takes the duster from him and places it on the end table with her book while she waits for Henry to come back into the room.

 

“What did you wanna show me?”

 

“Henry’s gone to get it, he’ll be right back. It’s something I use sometimes to help me get around, when my...” she pauses, unsure what words to use to explain to it to Roland without scaring him. She thinks for a moment and settles for, “When my sickness makes things difficult.”

 

“You’re sick?” the boy asks, scooting away from her slightly.

 

She chuckles, rubbing a hand along his back to try and put him at ease. “It’s not contagious, don’t worry. And yes, I’m sick.”

 

"But you don't look sick," he mumbles, forehead scrunching beneath a fan of curls.

 

"Things aren't always the way they look Roland."

 

"But when Moma Mulan was sick a few weeks ago she looked gross." His mouth twists as he sticks his tongue out in disgust; whatever this Mulan person had apparently offended the boy's very delicate sensibilities. She’ll have to remember to ask Robin about her--it, the situation--later.

 

Maybe she needs to try a different tactic...

 

"Roland, have you learned about body parts in school yet?" she asks, nodding to Henry as he walks back into the room.  She scooches over a little so Henry and plop down on her other side, cane in hand.

 

"Yeah! We've done, 'head, shoulders, knees,and toes,'" Roland sings, pointing to each body part, wiggling in a little dance she remembers listening to for _hours_ when Henry was Roland's age. He's starts a second round of 'knees and toes,' enthusiastically bouncing along with the words and it pops the bubble of tension previously surrounding them.  She laughs, letting him have his moment before swallowing the lump in her throat, stopping him and pulling him to sit in her lap.

 

“Well my sickness tends to bother some of those body parts. It makes my hands and my knees hurt--it makes it hard for me to walk sometimes, so I use this,” she says, taking the cane from Henry, holding it out flat in her palms so Roland can look at it.

 

The shaft of the cane is covered in brightly colored stickers: the day-glow yellow of the original X-Men; the vibrant red of Spiderman; the cragley orange of the Thing; a curling Superman ‘S’; the star-spangled shield of Captain America; a Bat Signal, and so many more, all coated in a protective layer of clear resin. Roland stares slack-jawed, turning the cane over and over, discovering each new character that passes below his fingertips, a quiet _woah_ whispered in the wonder only a child can posses.

 

“Where did you get all these?”

 

“When Henry was your age, he didn’t like to read very much either.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really,” Henry answers gravely, leaning in as if he’s telling Roland a secret.

 

“So I made a deal with him--for every one of the books he read off of his school reading list I would get him a comic book, and for every five, he’d get a set of stickers too. It was Henry’s idea to use some of the stickers to decorate my cane.”

 

“And I got multiple comics for reading longer books, don’t forget that part.”

 

“Oh, how could I forget about that?” she asks, leaning over to rest her forehead against Henry’s for a moment, tickling his side as she leans back until he is squirming and laughing, and trying to smack her hand away.

 

“There are so many stickers! You must have tons and tons of comics, Henry.”

 

“I have a few,” Henry says with a shrug.

 

“A few?” Regina asks, raising an eyebrow, giving him her best _‘you want to try that again young man?’_ face.

 

“Okay, I have a lot.”

 

“He does,” Regina agrees, grunting as she lifts Roland off of her lap and back onto the floor. “So, I thought that maybe, if Henry doesn’t mind, you could borrow a few of his. You know, to see if maybe you do like this whole _reading_ thing after all?” She looks to Henry, hoping she hasn’t made a mistake in offering without asking him first, but he just smiles back at her and stands, holding his hand out to Roland.

 

“Come on, why don’t we go up to my room and we can pick a few out? I have all the best ones, Spiderman and Batman and X-Men and Justice League…” His voice trails away as they jog off, hand in hand, up the stairs to Henry’s room.  

 

“No running on the stairs, please,” she calls out, her heart swelling with love for her little boy, her Little Prince with his generosity and willingness to share. She couldn’t be prouder of him and the young man he’s turning into.

 

She twirls the cane around her fingers, watching the comic book colors blend and swirl together with the movement before she stands and walks into the hallway to put it back. Her fingers curl and flex around the handle, the grip sliding into her hand like a perfectly worn glove, but she doesn’t need it, _not today_ , so she slides the cane back into the holder with the others where it belongs and trots up the stairs to join the boys, ignoring the ache in her knees and the sharp stinging pain in her feet.

 

**…**

 

Later that evening, after Roland has gone home with his father and she’s just finished putting Henry to bed--teeth have been brushed and stories have been told, foreheads have been kissed, and nightlights have been left swirling star scape patterns on the ceiling of his room--she is looking forward to crawling into bed herself when her phone chirps with an incoming call.

 

She smiles when she sees Robin’s number flashing on the caller ID, a foolish swarm of butterflies suddenly swirling in her stomach as she swipes the green phone icon to the right and answers. She wants to think of something cute to say, something sarcastic or a little flirty, but everything she thinks of just sounds ridiculous so she settles for a very lame, “Hello?”

“How did you do it?” Robin asks, skipping over any sort of greeting whatsoever.

 

“How did I do what?”

 

“Get Roland to read. He’s reading. _Because he wants to_. And he’s asking what words mean and if we can go to the comic book store with Henry to get more so he can find out what happens next.”

 

She smiles, pleased that she helped Roland find something he enjoys reading and that Robin seems to approve. “He spent more time reading over Henry’s shoulder today than he spent cleaning, so I thought it might be worth a try.”

 

“I’ve tried everything I could think of with the boy and he spends one day with you and… Thank you. Just...thank you, truly.” She imagines the way his eyes must soften, the blue turning deep and sincere and it sends a fissure of warmth crackling through her chest.

 

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” she scoffs. “Just wait until every spare weekend is spent in the comic book store in town, rifling through rows and rows of comics for the _exact_ one all while surrounded by pre-pubescent and teenage boys with varying levels of hygiene.”

 

“Delightful,” he groans, but she can hear the sarcastic humor beneath the misery.

 

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

 

“They must love you in there. I doubt they get many female clients.”

 

“I’m rather popular at times, yes.” She grimaces, thinking of awkwardly flirtatious teenagers and the occasional grown man she’s run into a few times too many while comic shopping with Henry. “I’ll spare you from the horror stories.”

 

“I can imagine.” He laughs, and now she’s wondering if maybe it’s worth telling him a few of those stories after all, just so she can listen to the rich timber of his laughter for just a little while longer.  “Maybe we should all go together next time?” he asks, breaking her out of her thoughts. “I can protect you from the lewd wandering eyes of the store patrons, and you can help me pick out a good starter set of comics for Roland?”  

 

“I’ll have to ask Henry, the comic book store is usually something we do together, but if he’s okay with it...” She pauses for a moment, thinking. She’s just given herself the perfect excuse to say no if she wants. She can say no to this charming man with his enchanting blue eyes and easy dimpled smile; she _could_ , but does she want to?

 

“I’d hate to intrude on your time with your boy, I know how important that is.”

 

“As long as Henry is okay with it, then yes. We’d love to,” she spills out, before she loses the nerve and caves under her own excuses. It’s just an outing with their children; it’s not like it’s a date.

 

“Okay,” he breathes, a deep sighing exhalation into the phone, almost as if he’d been holding his breath waiting for her answer. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, for the rest of Roland’s chores.”

 

“Until tomorrow. Goodnight, Robin.”

 

“Goodnight, Regina.”

 

It’s not a date-- _it’s not_ , she keeps telling herself--but that doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the warm, bubbling thought of it as she drifts off.


	5. Raking Leaves and Candlelit Kisses

He can hear them as he pulls onto the street, the high whooping laughter of their boys, muffled through the glass of his car windows. But it's not until he pulls into his drive, parking the car and getting out to lean on the back bumper and watch for a moment, that he sees what all the commotion is for.  

 

They're in Regina's front yard, Henry, Roland, and Regina, raking leaves into heaping piles, the crunching scrape of the metal rakes traveling across the street. Regina has her back to him, furiously swishing leaves into a pile a few feet away that's nearly up to her hip, when suddenly she stops, plants the end of her rake on the grass and rests her elbow on it, her other hand coming up and shoving some of the hair that’s escaped her ponytail out of her face.

 

"Okay, I think this one is done," he can hear her call to the boys.

 

"Are you sure?” Henry questions, a mischievous look twisting onto his face. “I think we need to inspect it? Don't you, Roland?"

 

Robin watches as his son nods emphatically, the jerking motion forcing the woolen cap on his head to slide down into his eyes for a moment, until Henry reaches over and pulls it back for the younger boy. They both drop their rakes to the ground with a _thunk_ and take off running, full pelt, across the yard; Regina barely moves out of the way before both boys flop right into the pile of neatly gathered leaves with a peal of giggles.   

 

He waits. He waits for her to chastise them, to fuss at them for ruining her neatly raked leaves, but instead she just snickers and shakes her head, before turning and waving to him. That's all the invitation he needs, so he raises his hand in a quick wave back and jogs across the street to join them.

 

She's leaning on her rake again when he enters her yard, watching as Henry and Roland make leaf angels in the now slightly scattered foliage, chuckling softly.  

 

"We're raking today," she says in greeting, her voice a little breathless and thin.

 

"So I see.  But doesn't it work better if you rake the leaves and then dispose of them, instead of just spreading them back around?"

 

"But then we wouldn't get to jump in the piles, Papa," his boy states matter-of-factly from his leaf submerged position.

 

"Oh, how silly of me. Of course."

 

"They were both a little wound up when they got home from school today. Apparently some of the classes had their Halloween parties early since they'll be in an assembly tomorrow, and I think the party food was a little heavy on the candy corn and cupcake variety.” He groans as she says that, a sudden spike of sympathy for the double dose of candy crazed children she must have endured all afternoon. She just shoots him a weary look, all eyebrow and sarcastic wide eyes that confirms his suspicion. “I thought it might be a good idea to have them burn off a bit of the extra energy."

 

"Bless you." He says, fighting the urge to kiss her feet in supplication.  He'd had a hard day at work and the idea of dealing with a sugar high Roland, and the inevitable surly, tear-soaked crash makes him want to weep. Hopefully the extra hour running around her yard will make the rest of his evening go smoothly.     

 

She laughs, a light musical thing that wraps around him like a breeze, and he can't help the smile that tugs at his lips in response.  

 

"Besides, it'll look better with the rest of the decorations if there are still some leaves scattered around the lawn." She shrugs, taking her rake and leaning it against the trunk of the big oak tree on the side of the yard.

 

"Decorations?" he asks, sweeping his gaze over the yard, and seeing nothing but a few pumpkins scattered up the porch steps and the brightly colored autumnal wreath she's had hanging on the door for the last few days.

 

"We were just about to work on that next, if you'd like to join us?" She quirks an eyebrow at him, oozing a bit of snark into the question in response to his blatant judgement.

 

"I'd love to. Lead on m'lady," he bows, sweeping his arm to the side in mock formality, and the laugh she releases in response erases every bit of exhausted tension his work day coiled around his spine.  

 

"Boys, we're going to go to the garage and start pulling out the decorations," she calls to the pile of leaves that their children have morphed into.

 

"Wait! We'll help!" Henry yells, rolling free and shaking leaves from his coat and hair.

 

"Me too, me too!" Roland pipes in, half running, half stumbling to their sides, shedding red and golden foliage with every step.

 

She’s limping a bit, a slight listing to her right as she walks toward the side of the house; it’s not pronounced, but it’s enough to be noticeable. Now that he thinks about it, she was breathing heavy earlier, more than she should have been after a bit of raking. He’s about to ask if she’s alright, if he can just grab whatever she needs for her while she takes a rest on the porch, but Henry beats him to it.

 

"Are we a little low on spoons?" Henry pants, his little arm scooping around his mother's waist so she can drape hers across his shoulders; it takes some of the strain off of the knee he noticed she'd been favoring slightly, leaning on her boy as he escorts them around the corner to the garage, rattling on about his day.    

 

"Spoons?" Robin asks, following behind Regina and her son.

 

"Regina has imaginary spoons that she loses sometimes, but it's okay because she gets them back the next day." Roland supplies as he skips ahead as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, the extra exercise apparently having done nothing to abate his abundant stores of candy corn-induced energy.

 

"Okay..." Robin drawls, face pinched with confusion.

 

"It's complicated," Regina tersely replies, disentangling from Henry and opening the garage door. "I'll tell you about it some other time. Henry, why don't you and Robin start carrying the hay bales around front and Roland and I will get the webs and the spiders?"

 

"Spiders?" Roland yips, attaching himself quickly to Robin's pant leg. "I don't like spiders."

 

"Oh, I don't either sweetie," she coos, squatting down to Roland's height. "But these spiders aren't scary." She dips her hand into a brown paper bag and pulls out a large, fluff covered plastic spider, holding it out to show him.  "See? It's harmless. Want to give it a pet?"

 

Roland peeks out from behind Robin’s leg, his little fingers still clutching the fabric, but slowly, he uncurls his right hand, reaches out and pats the spider in Regina's open palm.

 

"He's fuzzy," the boy giggles, rubbing his hand along the back of the decoration a few more times.

 

"Not so scary, huh?" She smiles, plopping the spider back in the bag.  When she stands back up her knees give a sickening pop, and she sucks in a little hissing breath, her face screwing up in a grimace of pain, that she quickly masks with a tight smile.

 

"Mom, are you okay?"  

 

"I'm fine honey. Why don't you go ahead out front and start showing Roland where the decorations go. Roland honey, do you think you can carry that bag--the one with the fake spiders?"  

 

"Yes ma'am."  

 

"Thank you," she flashes them both a smile, but he can see the hint of pain still dulling her eyes. "Go ahead, we'll be there in a minute."

 

Once the boys have toddled off with their loads she releases a hissing ‘ _son of a bitch_ ' that would be funny if he wasn't so concerned about her.

 

"Are you okay?" he asks, one hand sliding to support her elbow, while the other rubs soothing passes along her spine. He probably should have asked before touching her, but she leans into the contact, letting him take a bit of her weight, so he assumes it’s alright.  

 

"I'm fine, really," she reaches over and squeezes his arm, lifting her left leg a few times, bending it at the knee and kicking out, balancing by leaning a little more heavily onto the elbow he's still holding.

 

"Sometimes you just need to swear a little; I get that."

 

"Exactly," she chuckles mirthlessly, setting her foot back on the ground, her fingers circling around his arm and squeezing again. "Thank you." She smiles, looking up at him; he's never been this close to her before, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her honey brown eyes, and the few freckles that dot across her face. She's beautiful, _striking_ , even with her gardening clothes on (a faded-black Grateful Dead t-shirt and relaxed fit jeans, a worn feathered rip in one knee, and a hoodie tied around her hips), scrubbed of makeup and her hair pulled back in a messy pony tail.  She’s so close, if he just leaned down a bit...

 

He needs to step back before he does something foolish like kiss her in the middle of her garage minutes after she's been wincing in pain.

 

"Anytime," he stammers out, stepping away and hefting one of the bales of hay into his arms. "I'll just take this out front, yeah?"

 

"Yeah," she whispers, still staring at him with those big brown eyes, and he just turns and walks, focusing on carrying the hay and not the way her eyes flicked down to stare at his lips before he turned away.

 

**…**

 

He was going to kiss her. She could _feel_ it in the way the air became slightly charged, the way his breath slowed and deepened as his eyes left hers to stare at her lips. He was going to kiss her, and what surprises her, is that she _wanted_ him to.

 

But she doesn't have time to dwell on the hot British neighbor almost-kissing her when there are two rambunctious boys waiting to splatter her front lawn with gauzy spider webs and other festive fare, so she hefts a bag of decorations under each arm and walks around to join the fun.

 

They make quick work of the yard, tying the fuzzy spiders Roland has now decided he loves to low hanging tree branches with thin bits of twine so they look like they are floating mid-air, tacking strips of cottony webbing from the porch railings and banisters until the whole front of the house looks like it’s spun in swaths of spider-silk, spooky and soft, and just bordering on eerie.

 

They plunk two of the hay bales underneath the oak tree, angled slightly so parents will have a place to sit for a moment in full view of the front porch while their kids run up to the door to trick-or-treat. The other two bales end up slightly catty-corner, just a few feet from the end of the porch, angled in a similar way to their partners across the lawn.  Overall it gives a nice effect, perhaps a bit more hoe-down than haunted house, but she'd rather her home be inviting than frightening. All that’s left to put out are the pumpkins that are happily waiting on the kitchen counter to be carved into jack o’lanterns.

 

“Well, that should do it,” she says dusting her hands off on her jeans.

 

“Um, you have a little something…” Robin says, gesturing towards his hairline like a human mirror.

 

“Oh,” she flushes, her hands coming up immediately to pat at her hair, but she doesn’t feel anything.

 

“Here, may I?” He reaches over, gentle fingers plucking an errant piece of straw from her hair, holding it out for her to see before dropping it to the ground. “There, that’s better,” he says, his hand sweeping back up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear that he’d accidentally dislodged from her ponytail along with the straw.

 

“Thank you,” she says, her own fingers tracing along the same pattern his just made. That charged feeling is back, the warmth that brings texture to the air anytime he’s just a bit too close, or looking down at her with those ocean blue eyes like he is now. Her mouth has gone dry, her tongue sticking unpleasantly to her teeth until she lets it peek out to wet her bottom lip, and sure enough, his eyes follow the movement.  “You know, you’re sporting a bit of ‘hay bale chic’ yourself,” she quips, effectively popping the moment like a soap bubble.

 

“What?” he asks, voice thick and a bit dumbfounded.

 

She just raises her eyebrows and stares pointedly at his chest. There are little bits of hay all over his sweater, stubby yellow sticks of it poking out at random angles, thin shafts of it clinging to the soft fabric, and specks of beige-tinted dust all down his pant legs.

 

“I always did like that post ‘roll in the hay’ look, but I think this is going a bit too far,” he chuckles, swiping away the dust and debris.   

 

“I think we can handle what’s left on our own, if you’d like to go home and get cleaned up. I’m sure you have your own plans for the evening anyway.”

 

The boys, who have been playing an impromptu game of tag, dodging around the new obstacles in the yard, pause mid game and jog over when they hear her suggestion.

 

“But, Mom, they can’t go yet, we still have to do the jack o’lanterns,” Henry whines.

 

“I know sweetheart, but Robin and Roland have helped us more than enough for today,” she says, rubbing her hand affectionately between Henry’s shoulder blades before settling it on his shoulder. “I’m sure they’d like to go home and get on with their evening.”

 

“Can we stay, Papa? Please?” Roland asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet.  

 

“Roland, I think we’ve taken up enough of Regina and Henry’s time, and these afternoons were supposed to be a punishment for you breaking Regina’s window, not a playdate.”

 

“He’s more than worked off his debt, I assure you. And it would have taken us twice as long to get all of the decorations up without your help, so why don’t we call it even?” she offers.

 

“Does that mean we can stay and help with the pumpkins?” Roland asks, staring up at Regina with those big, brown, puppy-dog eyes.

 

“If it’s alright with your father, then you’re both welcome to stay.” She taps the end of his nose, smiling when his face scrunches up in response.

 

“We’d love to,” Robin quickly replies, laughing when the boys whoop in response, running towards the house.

 

“Come on Roland, I’ll show you my jack o’lantern designs.” Henry calls. They hold hands as they clamber up the steps and it makes her heart clench, seeing the easy way they connect, the open, innocent affection of young friendship, the trust of hearts that have yet to be broken. At least she hasn’t gotten that wrong, her little boy is still willing to love and be loved, unaware of the pain it can cause. She hasn’t taken that from him. Not yet, at least.  

 

They follow the boys into the kitchen, picking up their scattered scarves, shoes, and coats and putting them away in the hall closet on the way in. Regina asks Robin to help her cover the counter with sheets of newspaper, securing the edges with strips of masking tape to make the clean up later a bit easier, and then Robin helps her lift the pumpkins onto the covered surface one by one. They have four in total, usually two for Henry and two for her, but she supposes this year there will be one for each of them, Robin, Roland, Henry, and Regina. Finally she pulls out a couple of sheet trays to roast the pumpkin seeds on after they’ve been scooped out and cleaned, and the carving kit she’s used every year since Henry was a little boy, the tools worn and familiar, like old friends.   

 

When they’ve finished prepping, she turns and watches as Henry shows Roland drawing after drawing, dozens of pages covered in waxy, primary colors, the Crayola creative genius of a ten year old boy. He's so proud, puffed up and preening as Roland _oohs_ and _aahhs_ over the various super hero sketches and movie themed designs. It makes her heart swell seeing her little boy so pleased with himself, so willing to share something so personal with his new friend, but it also has a touch of guilt lancing through the center of her chest.

 

There is no way she is going to be able to pull off carving one of the intricate drawings they selected.

 

Her joints are swollen and heated, the repetitive motion of raking and hanging decorations leaving them feeling thick, like little sausages tacked onto her hands. The idea of gripping and slicing, delicate drags of various blades and chisels in order to accomplish the sort of look Henry is expecting seems torturous and impossible. And she's going to have to break her little boy's heart, now with an audience, since the neighbors have decided to stay and join in on the festivities. Huzzah.

 

"Everything okay?" Robin's voice breaks her out of her pity party.

 

"Yeah, fine," she lies, giving him a tight smile.

 

“You sure? Because you are looking at the pumpkin carving kit like it has wronged you.”

 

“No, I’m not,” she fires back, lips twisting in a frown. He just raises an eyebrow at her, tipping his head to the side, silently calling her out on her bad attitude. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am.” She grouses, shoving the carving kit aside and pulling a stack of transfer papers out from underneath, thrusting them into his hands. “These are the designs Henry and I decided on together, but I don’t think I’ll be able to do any of them today. My hands are bothering me.”

 

“You drew these?” Robin asks, flipping through her sketches one by one.

 

“Well, to be fair they are Henry’s ideas. I just, clean them up a little.” She shrugs, pulling the ones he’s looked over from his fingers and setting them aside.

 

“Regina, these are really good. You’ve quite a talent for drawing.” He says, briefly making eye contact to reinforce his point, before looking back to her artwork.   
  
“I should hope so, it’s sort of my job. Well part of my job anyway.” She shrugs, leaning over his shoulder slightly examining her work, practiced eyes finding every flaw, every smudged line or slightly skewed proportion, wondering what it’s like to see her work through outside eyes, _his_ eyes.

 

“Wait, what?” he asks looking back at her, his brow knit with confusion.

 

“I design book covers, usually women’s upmarket fiction, but I do the occasional young adult or science fiction novel just to keep things fresh.”

 

“What, no romance novels?” he jokes, elbowing her lightly in the side. When she doesn’t immediately deny it he turns to her with an almost childlike glee. “Wait, you have!”

 

A faint blush colors her cheeks as she clears her throat. “Are you done looking at those?” She holds out her hand, waiting for him to hand the pages back, but he lifts them up, just out of her reach.

 

“Not until you answer me.”

  
“Robin, this is silly, just give me back the drawings.”

 

“Nope. Not until you fess up.”

  
She hops a couple of times, trying to snatch the papers out of his grip, but he’s just too tall. “Fine, yes.” She sighs. “But only a few, when I was starting out and I had a lull between gigs. Now may I have my sketches back?”

 

“Do you have any of them in the house? I want to see.”

 

“No. Absolutely not. You’re already entirely too pleased with yourself, I will not allow my humiliation to add to your already rather impressive ego.”

 

“Regina, what’s ego mean?” Roland asks, suddenly interested in the adult’s conversation.

 

“It means your father is rather pleased with himself, and happy to let everyone know it,” she snarks, cutting her eyes at Robin who simply stares back at her with a shit-eating grin.

 

“Yep, that sounds like Papa.” Roland agrees and Regina just snickers at the look of mock-offense on Robin’s face, taking advantage of his momentary distraction to snatch the transfer papers out of his hand.

 

“Alright you two, that’s enough gangin’ up on me.” Robin says, narrowing his eyes at Roland and Regina before changing the subject. “Now, who’s ready to carve some pumpkins?”

 

The boys cheer in response from their place at the kitchen table, chairs squeaking noisily against the floor as they push out of their seats and scramble over to the breakfast bar where the pumpkins are all set up.

 

“Henry, sweetheart,” Regina starts, chewing her bottom lip nervously, dreading having to disappoint her little boy because of her body betraying her, _again_ , but Robin interrupts.

 

“Henry, what your mother is trying to ask, is if it would be okay if I carved the pumpkins instead of her? We can still pick from your designs, the ones the two of you worked on together, but I’m quite keen to try my hand at a bit of gourd carving, as long as that’s alright with you?”

 

“Sure, that’s cool,” Henry shrugs, as if it’s no big deal. “Roland and I can still help, right?”

 

“Of course, my boy. Every carving man needs helpers,” Robin says, clapping both boys on the shoulder and giving her a small nod and a smile when she mouths a quick _Thank you_ over their heads.

 

She’s been worried about having this conversation with her son for the last couple of hours, bending and flexing her joints around the rake handle desperately hoping they would behave, silently willing her uncooperative body not to betray her, to let her do this _one thing_ for her little boy, and Robin has just solved her problem as if it was no trouble at all. Cool relief washes over her, gratitude gathering between her eyes that she rapidly blinks away, smiling through the unfamiliar ache of accepting help.

 

The rest of the evening goes smoothly; Robin carefully cuts open the tops of the pumpkins and the boys delight in scooping out the slimy, stringy innards with their bare hands, helping Regina pluck out and clean off the seeds so she can splash them with a bit of oil and a generous sprinkling of salt and pop them into the oven to roast to have for snacks later. By then it’s nearing 6PM so they order a couple of pizzas to have for supper, Roland’s face twisting up in disgust when Regina orders herself a small gluten free pie with no sauce and extra mushrooms, but she doesn’t have the energy to explain that she can’t have sauce because tomatoes are a nightshade vegetable or that the gluten of a normal crust would irritate her already inflamed joints, so she just plays along making jokes about her crimes against pizza.

 

While they wait for the food to arrive, they finish cleaning all four pumpkins, then neatly tack the transfer paper designs to their fronts. Roland and Henry use the long metal skewers in the carving kit (with Robin and Regina’s supervision) to poke holes along the outline of the images so that Robin will be able to make a cleaner cut when he uses the various serrated blades to slice along the thin black lines left behind by the transfer paper once it’s peeled away. That’s the last of the ‘child-friendly’ tasks, so when the food arrives they set the boys up in the living room with plates of pizza, plastic cups of ice water, copious amounts of napkins, and _Toy Story_ to keep them occupied while they eat and Regina and Robin finish off the carving.

 

An hour and two demolished pizzas later, there are four completed jack o’lanterns dotted along the countertop. A snarling Ninja Turtle for Roland, a narrow-eyed Batman silhouetted against a rounded bat signal background for Henry, a slash of sinister teeth spread in a cheshire-like grin with two beady eyes floating above for Robin, and a sleek cat for Regina, the tail curving behind in a kinked question mark curl that makes it look like she’s about to walk right out of the pumpkin and slink away into the dark. All that’s left is to put them on the front porch and light the little candles inside.

 

“The movie should be about done. Why don’t you start carrying these out to the front porch and we’ll meet you outside?” Regina asks, pulling a few tealights and the long lighter from the junk drawer.

 

“Sure, I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Robin says, taking the lighter and candles from her and tucking them in his back pocket before carefully picking up one of the pumpkins to carry out to the porch.

 

“Boys, we’ve finished the jack o’lanterns why don’t you…” Regina calls walking down the hallway, but when she turns the corner into the living room she finds Henry and Roland asleep in a pile on the couch. Their sugar rush from earlier must have finally worn off leaving them to crash in a post-pizza carb coma, adorably snoring and blissfully quiet for the first time all day.

 

She pulls the blanket off the back of the couch and tucks it around them, pressing a quick kiss to each of their foreheads, careful not to wake them. She leaves the movie going, just in case they wake up while she’s outside, but turns off the lights on her way out the room. When she gets back to the kitchen there’s only one pumpkin, hers oddly enough, left on the counter so she hefts it into her arms and heads out front to meet Robin.

 

“Where are the boys?” he asks when he sees her walk out onto the porch alone, gingerly closing the door behind her as best she can while balancing a jack o’lantern in her arms.

 

“Asleep on the couch. I didn’t have the heart to wake them.”

 

Robin takes the pumpkin from her arms and sets it on the steps with the others, he’s placed them on alternating sides, one on each step, framing the pathway up to the porch nicely. He plucks the last tealight from his pocket and places it inside the pumpkin, clicking on the lighter and holding it to the wax-coated wick until it sparks into life, making the carved image flicker and glow, then he sits along the top step, patting the space beside him for her to join.

 

“They turned out pretty good, if I say so myself,” Robin says, leaning forward to admire his work.

 

“They really did. Thank you, again. For helping.”

 

“Of course, it was my pleasure,” Robin shrugs, sitting up straighter so he can look at her properly. “And I know Roland had a good time hanging out with Henry.”

 

“Really, Robin, I mean it.” She swallows, trying to keep her breathing even and calm so she can say what she wants to without becoming emotional. “Henry has to sacrifice enough… he misses out on more than he should have to because of my shortcomings. It means a lot to me that he got to have this, something normal, and a lot of that is because you decided to stay and help, so when I say thank you, I mean it.”

 

She looks up, surprised to find he’s staring at her with liquid blue eyes, leaning in to catch every word, and it makes her heart knock against her chest. He’s so close, she can smell the evergreen of his cologne mixed with the earthy scent of hay and sunlight, and her eyes flutter shut for a moment as she just breathes it in. They snap back open when she feels his thumb trace across her cheek, swiping away a tear she didn’t know had squeezed free beneath her closed lashes.

 

His hand lingers, warming her already flushed skin, and she leans into the touch as he draws her closer, closing the gap between them until their eyes slip shut and his lips press against hers.

 

He’s like coming up for air, a deep, sucking lungful of oxygen after drowning in water and blood. He’s soft and tender, his mouth moulding perfectly around hers as his hand cups her jaw, his thumb sweeping along the apple of her cheek; he’s just what she needs and she hates him for it.

 

She's been fighting alone for so long, stitching herself together with day old thread and band-aid patches, that she's forgotten what it's like to let someone help. The years have come and gone, one appointment after another, test after test after test; playdates and birthday parties, soccer matches and parent teacher conferences, skinned knees and IVs and she has been strong and carried herself and Henry and the rest of the world on her shoulders.

 

She should be grateful, she should fall into his open arms and let someone lift the burden from her, she should let him at least share it, but something inside of her just _can't_.

 

Her hand comes up, fingers splayed against his chest to gently push him away. Their mouths separate with a wet smack, their foreheads briefly pressed together as she breathes, “Robin, wait.”

 

He pulls further back from her, forehead knit in confusion as he searches her face, “Regina, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… If I read this wrong?” He fumbles over the words, the hand that had been cupping her jaw sliding down to rest warmly against her neck, then off and away.

 

The sudden absence of his touch leaves her feeling cold and empty, has her wrapping her arms across her chest to fight off the chill. He’s just _looking_ at her, he’s always looking at her; it makes her feel vulnerable and raw, like he can see all of her secrets, and Regina has spent years fine tuning the art of keeping things hidden.

 

“It’s not you, it’s me. Oh _God_. I’m a cliche,” she groans, running her fingers through her hair. “Let me try that again.”

 

“It’s okay, take your time,” he encourages, his hands running up and down along the expanse of her denim clad thighs. It’s a touch meant to soothe, to settle -- his hands stay along the outside of her legs, more toward her knees than her hips, so there’s nothing inappropriate about it, but it feels decidedly _intimate_ , and it’s definitely not helping her resolve to push him away.

 

“You didn’t read this wrong, but that doesn’t mean… I’m not ready for this. I’m sorry. There’s still too much you don’t know, it wouldn’t be fair to you, or the boys.”

 

“Then tell me,” he says, sincere and emphatic, and if only it were that easy.

 

“It isn’t that simple.”

 

“Okay, then I’ll wait. Until you’re ready.” He reaches for one of her hands, pressing a kiss to the peaks and valleys of her knuckles.

 

“Robin,” she sighs, pulling her hand lightly from his grip, “I may never be ready.”

 

“We’ll just have to wait and see then, won’t we?” He gives her a bitten grin, that one that makes his dimples pop and her knees turn to rubber, and she hates herself for it, but she smiles back.

 

“I guess we will,” she murmurs, shaking her head with a scoffing chuckle.

 

“And on that note, I think I should go.”

 

“That would probably be best,” she agrees, standing and walking with him inside.

 

She watches as Robin gingerly lifts Roland into his arms, balancing the limp form of his boy against his shoulder, careful not to wake him, and then she walks with them back to the front, holding the door for him as he leaves.

 

“We’re still on for trick-or-treating tomorrow, yeah?” he whispers, jostling Roland slightly until he has a better hold. “I’d hate for the boys to miss out on a nice time just because things are unclear between us.”

 

It’s a low blow, using their sons to steal her argument from her before she even has a chance to try, but he’s right. “Yes, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“What are you dressing up as? I’d hate for our costumes to clash,” he flirts, his tone teasing and light despite the fact that they are whispering on her porch while he holds his sleeping son, the same porch where she just pushed away from him kissing her moments before because dating this man is a bad idea. _She_ is a bad idea, and no matter how charming he is or how badly she wants to just lean over and kiss him goodnight, and goodmorning, and whatever other sort of greeting that allows her to sink into him and savor the taste of him that’s still lingering lightly on her lips, he deserves better.

 

But that doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the flirting and the banter, right?

“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see,” she says, unable to resist the urge to give him a little teasing wink before whispering a quick _Goodnight, Robin_ and closing the door.   

  


**…**

 

She can't wink, bless her, but she tries. She screws up her face and both of her eyes shut for a moment as her mouth tips up in an open smile, and finally one eye closes in a scrunchy attempt at a wink. It's adorable and heartwarming, a delightfully perfect imperfection.

 

It makes him want to lean over and kiss the grin from her lips, to sip the mirth from her mouth until it spreads and fills his own, but they aren't there yet. She needs time, time to chip away the walls she's built up, the protections and insecurities that bubble through her veins and fizzle her nerves until she can relax and lean into where he is solidly settled and waiting for her. He readjusts his hold on Roland then clomps down the stairs, heading away from her home towards his.  

He will wait. He will listen. He will be a hand at her back to guide her to the room, a wave from across the street to welcome her into the morning, a shoulder to rest on, a hand to hold.  He will be whatever she needs, as much or as little, for as long as she will allow him in the glow of her presence. He will savor the small touches, the way their knees tap against each other as they sit on a picnic blanket watching their boys play, the brush of soft fingers as she hands him a drink, the silken ink of her hair as he tucks it behind her ear. He will drink his fill of her from a respectful, _interested_ , periphery, until she beckons him in.

  
  
  
  
  



	6. Tricks and Treats

“See, now that’s just not fair,” Robin groans when he opens the door the next evening to find Regina Mills, rather Uhura Mills, standing on his front porch. His eyes roam over her, drinking in the way the red communication officer’s costume clings to her curves, flaring slightly at her hips, the hemline stopping just mid thigh, followed by an expanse of sheer black tights and knee-high black leather high heeled boots. He lets his gaze travel back up, admiring the way the bold, saturated color compliments her skin tone, the perfect winged eyeliner, and the cheeky knowing grin spread across her face. The minx. 

 

“What’s not fair?” she asks, eyes going round and wide in mock-innocence.  

 

“You cannot show up at my door mere hours after telling me you ‘don’t date’ looking like that.” 

 

“Like what?” 

 

_ Like sex on a stick _ he wants to say, but the words catch in his throat when Henry pops up from behind her.  

 

"Cool! You're Jack Sparrow," Henry says, giving Robin a fist bump in greeting. 

 

"That's  _ Captain  _ Jack Sparrow, savvy?" Robin counters, with his best (somewhat pathetic) Johnny Depp impersonation.

 

“Where’s Roland?” the boy asks, peeking around behind Robin trying to find his friend. 

 

“He’s doing the first round of trick-or-treating with his moms. They should be dropping him off soon.” 

 

“Moms? As in plural?” Regina asks. 

 

“It’s a long story,” Robin replies. “One you’re apparently about to hear,” he says through a gritted smile, nodding toward the driveway as he lifts his hand in a wave. 

 

**…**

 

Regina turns in time to see a blue sedan park in the drive, a beautiful woman emerging from the driver’s seat and waving back, lips spreading in a brilliant white smile, that seems a bit forced around the edges. She gorgeous, smooth caramel colored skin and shining black hair, delicate almond shaped eyes that are thickly lined with a smudging of kohl to go with the immaculate Cleopatra costume that seems to be painted on to her perfect figure. 

 

She’s stunning, of course she is; Regina suddenly feels frumpy and awkward in comparison, nervously smoothing the edge of her dress and giving the hem a firm tug. A thin blossom of jealousy blooms in her gut, but she tamps it down, it’s irrational; she has nothing to be jealous over.

 

“Sorry we’re a bit late, there was traffic on the way back,” the woman she assumes to be Marian says as she rounds the car, opening the door for Roland. 

 

“Regina, look! I already got a bucket full!” Roland says, jogging across the lawn in a blur of Spiderman red and blue, holding the bucket with both hands, bits and pieces of candy sloshing out with every bouncing step. 

 

“I see,” Regina says, squatting down to the boy’s level, making sure the end of her dress is tucked firmly between her bottom and the backs of her legs in her crouched position.

 

“Hello, Roland. Nice to see you too,” Robin grumbles sarcastically from above them. 

 

“Oh, hey Dad,” the boy chirps, before turning back to Regina, showing her his very full jack o’lantern shaped bucket full of candy. 

 

“It looks like you don’t have any room left! Where are you going to put the candy you get trick-or-treating with Henry?” Regina asks. 

 

A worried expression passes over the boy’s face as he looks into his bucket, chewing on his bottom lip, but then his whole face transforms as he says, “I know, I’ll just have to eat some! That should make some room.” 

 

“Oh no, you know the rules young man,” Robin pipes in from behind them. 

 

“Aw, but Dad,” Roland whines, looking to Regina and then to the other woman who has moved across the lawn to join them, Roland’s Ninja Turtle backpack thrown over her arm. 

 

“No buts. You get two pieces of candy after trick-or-treating is done and then the rest is spread out for the rest of the week.” 

 

“Only two?” Henry scoffs. “Even Mom lets me have more than that.”

 

“See, Dad? Henry gets more than two pieces,” Roland whines, his dimples popping as he rolls out his bottom lip in a quivering pout.  

 

“Henry is also a bit older than you, and he’s only allowed four, so it’s not that much different,” Regina says, tossing a pointed look at her son as she stands. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, I’m Regina. I live next door,” she says, extending her hand to the woman looking between them all as they bicker about candy, an unreadable neutrality painted across her face. 

 

“Oh, I know who you are. That is, I mean, I’ve heard about you,” the other woman stammers. “Robin, help me out here.” 

 

“I’m sorry. Regina Mills, Fa Mulan. Mulan, Regina.” Robin introduces them, gesturing between the two as the woman who is in fact  _ not _ Marian takes Regina’s hand and gives it a firm shake.  

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Fa Mulan.” 

 

“Please, just call me Mulan. And it’s nice to meet you, finally,” she grins as her eyes quickly float up and down Regina’s figure before coming back to rest on her face. “I see Robin does have a type afterall.” 

 

“I’m sorry, wha--” Regina starts, but Robin quickly cuts her off, stepping into the conversation. 

 

“Where’s Marian? I thought she was supposed to drop Roland off today? We needed to discuss the schedule for the next couple of weeks.”

 

“She wasn’t feeling well, so I thought it was best I bring Roland on my own. I’m just as much his parent as the two of you, anything you need to discuss can be done with me instead of Marian.” 

 

Regina can see the irritation bubbling under Robin’s skin, the web of flushed red spreading across his chest and up his neck as his right hand turns into a fist, the fingers curling and uncurling with each breath huffed in and out of his nose. She has the sudden urge to hold his hand, to tangle their fingers together to try and subdue some of the anger she can practically feel vibrating off of him, but it’s not her place, this entire conversation is none of her business.  

 

“Why don’t I take the boys inside? I can get Roland changed into his other costume so we can be ready to go after you’ve finished talking to Mulan?” Regina suggests, trying to give Robin a bit of privacy and spare the kids from what she’s sure is about to be a rather tense conversation.

 

“Thank you. I’ll be there in a minute,” Robin says while she ushers the boys toward the door; as she passes him her fingers circle around his wrist, giving a quick squeeze, it’s just a friendly gesture, an offer of support, a brief contact that’s over before it really begins, but she can’t help but notice that his shoulders seem to relax just the tiniest bit in response. 

 

**...**

 

When he walks into the house he’s greeted by the din of laughter, the infectious sound wrapping around him and melting the lingering tension stiffening his shoulders until he can breathe again. He just stands and listens for a minute, soaks in the sound of  _ happiness _ for a moment before he follows the noise into the living room. When he rounds the corner he finds Roland, Henry, and Regina sprawled across the living room rug, the coffee table shoved to the side to give them more floor space, and the beginnings of what looks to be some kind of elaborate candy sorting system. 

 

“What’s all this?” Robin asks as he wanders over to get a better look.

 

“Regina has a candy sorting system, Papa,” Roland explains, turning back to the pile of candy on the rug. 

 

“I see,” he says, even though he can see no rhyme nor reason in the jumbled mess of piles scattered on the floor. 

 

“It’s a Mills family tradition,” Henry says. “Every year after trick-or-treating Mom and I dump out whatever I’ve gotten and whatever is left of the hand out bowl and we separate it in two piles. We sort those piles into categories and then we barter, we trade back and forth until we’re both happy with what we have.” 

 

“It worked more in my favor when he was a bit younger and didn’t quite understand values,” Regina says with a wink. 

 

“Hey!” Henry whines, nudging his mother and she just chuckles in response, that deep, rich, rumble of a laugh that makes him think of jazz singers and chaise lounges and other things that he does not need to contemplate in front of their children. 

 

“Who’s ready for trick-or-treating?” Robin says, swooping in to scoop Roland into his arms, tickling his Ninja Turtle costume-covered belly, letting the boy’s high pealing giggle erase all thoughts of Regina Mills from his mind for a moment. 

 

“Yeah!” Henry whoops, hopping up from the floor and dragging his mother with him, quickly grabbing his Captain America shield and his candy bucket from their places on the couch. 

Robin deposits Roland back on the floor, laughing as the boy haphazardly tosses on his turtle shell backpack and pulls his Raphael mask down over his eyes as he runs after Henry in sloppy steps. Regina tosses him a look as they follow the boys outside, a simple raise of her eyebrows as if to say ‘everything okay?’ but he just shakes his head, placing a hand on the small of her back to escort her out the house with a promise of, “Later.” 

 

***

 

They wander in silence for a bit--occasionally reminding the boys not to run, to say please and thank you at each door they go up to--but otherwise they’re happy to just be, to walk in the dimming darkness of Halloween and enjoy the festive feeling of the night.  He feels her mood shift when they reach the end of the cul-de-sac, the silence suddenly becoming heavy until she pops it like a balloon with the question he knows she’s been holding since before they left. 

 

“So, do you want to talk about it?” Regina asks when the boys are far enough away, scampering up the sidewalk to ring doorbells and beg the neighbors for candy in a way that is only appropriate on this holiday. 

 

He doesn’t answer right away, he simply unclips the flask from his costume and tips it in her direction. 

 

“I don’t do rum, Captain,” she says, scrunching up her nose.

 

“Who do you take me for, woman?”

 

“I don’t take you for anything, thief,” she counters, pointing to his pirate’s outfit when he makes a face at her mock insult. 

 

“I’m sure I’d remember if you had.” He flirts, with a wink that earns him a scoff of laughter from her. “Trust me,” he says, offering the flask to her again, with what he hopes is a charming smile. 

 

She narrows her eyes briefly, before pulling the flask from his hand, looking up quickly to make sure Henry and Roland are still happily waiting on the porch nearby, and taking a quick swig. He can see the moment she registers what it is, her eyes go wide and bright, and she smiles at him, pleased and surprised. She takes another, longer drink, closing her eyes and humming softly as she swallows. “Whiskey,” she breathes, handing him back the flask with a smile. 

 

“See, I told you to trust me.” He winks, clipping the flask back to its place on his costume, rocking a little to the side when she bumps his shoulder with her own.

 

“Don’t let it go to your head, Captain.” 

 

“I would never,” he vows, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. 

 

“Okay, pirate boy,” she sasses, rolling her eyes. “Are you done dodging my question now, or do you need to take another swig from your flask for fortitude?”

 

“It’s complicated.” He settles for, retrieving his flask and taking a quick gulp.

 

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to tell me.” She says and it makes him feel like a heel, and a hypocrite. He all but told this woman he wants to be in a relationship with her, that he’d wait until she was ready, and she’s reaching out, offering to let him talk, to try and know more about him and he’s shutting down like a petulant child. 

 

“No, Regina, I’m sorry,” he starts, keeping his voice low as their boys toddle back towards them, all smiles and excited chatter as they compare what they’ve gotten so far. 

 

He’s never been more thankful for their boys than in that moment, the way they wade into the heaviness between their parents without a hint of comprehension, dissolving the moment in the wake of their contagious excitement. When Henry and Roland wander away again towards the next house the air feels clear again, so he takes a deep breath and starts over. 

 

“Roland’s mother and I had an amicable split. We married young, had Roland two years into the marriage and we realized shortly after that we just weren’t right for each other, that we were, and still are, good friends, but we weren’t  _ partners _ , not the way a couple really should be. So we split.” He reaches up as they walk, plucking a leaf from one of the trees lining the street, worrying it between his fingers as he continues to talk. “She met Mulan a little less than a year later and they’ve been together ever since, so she’s been around most of Roland’s life. Don’t get me wrong, she’s great; she’s good for Marian and she is good to Roland, but she is not his mother. She’s an excellent step-mom, the best, but it drives me up a wall when she acts like she has a right to judge how I parent  _ my _ son.” 

 

“Yes, but Marian is his parent as well, she’s his mother.” Regina says, snatching a leaf of her own from the next tree they pass, ripping it into neat little pieces as they saunter along the sidewalk behind their boys. 

 

“Yes, she is,” Robin leads, voice rising at the end inviting her to continue. 

 

“Hypothetically, if you were to remarry, would you want your wife to have a say in how Roland was parented? To be treated as an equal in how he was raised?” 

 

“Yes, but—” 

 

“But nothing. She would be his step-mother, just like Mulan,” Regina cuts him off before he can finish his argument. “Maybe you should cut her some slack? Or at least be open to a bit more communication?”  

 

He looks over at the self-satisfied smirk painted across her lips, the butter light of the streetlamps making her skin glow, the way they are walking perfectly in step with one another, stride for stride, and part of him aches around how  _ right _ everything feels in that one instance. She’s honed right in on him, called him out on his double-standards without making him feel defensive or small, as if it was the most simple thing in the world. And she listened, like it was easy, like she’d be happy to hear anything he had to say. It makes him want to freeze the moment, to stop the rest of the world and just be here on this sidewalk with her on all Hallow’s Eve, whispering all of his secrets to her until he had no words left to give.

 

“Yeah, maybe,” is what he settles for instead. 

 

**...**

 

The rest of the night goes by in a blur. Somewhere around 8pm the whining starts, the boys complaining of their feet hurting and being tired, until Robin hoists Henry into a piggy-back ride for the walk home. It makes her heart clench, that her little boy is too big for her to carry all the 

way home, that he’s grown so much, the years slipping through her fingers like sand. She takes a bit of comfort in Roland’s reaching fingers, grabbing at the air until she scoops him into her arms, settling him on her hip while he wraps himself around her like a koala bear. It’s not the same as carrying her own little boy, but she’s become fond of Roland, loves him even, and she’ll revel in having a little one to snuggle and carry, even if it’s only for a few minutes. 

  
When they reach their end of Winthrop Street the boys have gained a bit of a second wind, squirming to be let down so they can scamper inside to divvy up their candy. For some reason, or unspoken agreement, they both head to Robin’s intent on finishing the sorting and bartering they started with Roland’s first batch of candy, so the adults just go along with it. Regina jogs across the street to flip off her porch light and bring over whatever is left in the bowl she left for trick-or-treaters before they went out, adding it to the pile to be sorted as she joins them in Robin's living room. When they’ve sorted through everything (making sure to throw away anything open or with a tampered wrapper) the bartering begins.   

 

“I’ll give you two Snickers for a Milkyway,” Regina offers, offended when Robin snorts in reply. 

 

“You’re not very good at this are you?” he laughs, dodging a box of Dots she chucks at his head in response. “Snickers are the best, why would you give away  _ two _ for a sickly-sweet Milkway?” 

 

“Because nuts are gross and I don’t want them messing up my chocolate,” she snips back. “Now do we have a deal, or not?” 

 

“Oh, absolutely, hand ‘em over.” 

 

“Henry, I’ll give you a bag of candy corn and the apple,” Roland says with a wrinkle of his nose, as if an apple is the  _ worst  _ thing ever to desecrate Halloween, “for your Hershey bar.” 

 

“Nice try kiddo, no way,” Henry laughs in response. 

 

“But the apple is just as big as the Hershey bar,” Roland argues.

 

“Yeah, but nowhere near as tasty,” Henry says. 

 

“Regina, you like apples,” Roland starts, but gives up when he sees her cocked eyebrow and half-grin. 

 

“And I think given the pile of candy you have to go through over the next few days, an apple might be good for you young man,” she says, finishing with a tap to his nose. 

 

They continue to barter and tease, swapping and sorting piles of candy until everyone is happy with their hoard and the two younger members of the group are yawning through their sentences. Roland and Henry mumble goodnights, giving each other sleepy sidearm hugs that make Robin and Regina smile over their heads, before Regina gathers their things and ushers Henry to the door with a whisper of “Goodnight, and Happy Halloween.” 

**...**

 

The next morning, after Mulan has picked up Roland for his week at their place, and he’s brewed a pot of coffee in the eerily quiet kitchen, Robin looks out the window hoping to catch a glimpse of Regina, maybe to smile and wave at her over cups of coffee, sleep ruffled hair, and front yards. Instead he spies her out in the yard, already dressed in jeans and a long sleeve shirt, beneath her oak tree.   

 

She looks like some kind of forest nymph, laid out on the ground, her hair fanned out around her head and dotted with leaves, staring up at the branches of the big oak tree in her yard. She’s been like that for the last ten minutes, arms folded and resting along her stomach, one knee bent while the other leg stretches out along the ground, while she just stares. For the life of him he can’t figure out what she’s doing, so he does the only thing he can think of, he walks across the street and joins her, stretching along her side and staring up into the branch broken sky. 

 

“What are you doing?” he asks, after he’s laid there with her in the silence for a few minutes. 

 

“Trying to work up the energy to take down the decorations.” 

 

“I could help,” he offers, silently counting the spiders dangling from the tree twitching back and forth in the wind. From what he can see there are about 27; that shouldn’t take them too long to take down and put away if they work together. 

 

“ _ Hmm _ , maybe in a minute,” she murmurs in reply, her fingers twirling a few blades of grass before her hand stills a few inches away from his own. 

He looks over, reaching out until his knuckles graze hers, just a whisper of contact, a sigh of skin on skin and for a moment her eyes flutter shut, her fingers leaning back into the touch and he almost weaves his fingers through hers… But then her eyes snap open and she sits up quickly, her hand flinching away. 

 

“Robin, don’t,” she whispers, pinching the bridge of her nose as if to ward off a wave of dizziness. She already seemed low on energy and now he’s made her all jumpy and tense, it sends a stab of guilt through the centre of his chest. He almost settles a hand on her arm to reassure her, but his fingers stop mid air, curling back against every instinct screaming to comfort and console. 

 

“Regina—” he tries to reach out with word instead, but she cuts him off before he gets the chance. 

 

“No. Nothing has changed. I appreciate you trusting me enough to talk last night. It was fun trick-or-treating with the boys,” she rattles off, standing to put a bit of space between them. 

 

“They love spending time together,” Robin says, standing and following as she begins to walk away towards the house. 

 

“They do, and I’m happy for them to continue to, but this, whatever  _ this _ is is not a good idea.”

  
“Do I get a say in this at all?” he asks, reaching out, fingers lightly circling her wrist so she’ll stop and look at him. 

 

She swallows thickly, closing her eyes as she chews on her bottom lip, when she opens them again he can see the faint glimmering of tears gathering over their coffee-colored depths. “Trust me. We would be broken before we’d even have a chance to begin, and that is not a risk I am willing to take right now.” 

 

She slips her wrist free from his lax fingers and jogs up the porch steps, leaving him alone feeling as out of place and confused as the yard full of decorations for a holiday that has come and gone. 


	7. Barefoot and Falling

November arrives with a snap of cold. Robin wakes to windows that are laced with frost and trimmed with the sharp points of icicles, gleaming in the early dawn sunlight.  His toes wiggle and settle, little pinpricks of cold stabbing through each one as they stick to the cold kitchen tiles.  He should have put on a pair of slippers, or some house socks at least, but he wanted to make sure he was here in time, he didn't want to miss seeing  _ her _ . She’s been avoiding him since their encounter on Sunday; two days coming and going without so much as a hello, no morning waves, no afternoon chats, and with Roland away at his mother’s this week there have been no playdates between their children to use as an excuse for him to see her. 

 

His hands wrap around a steaming cup of coffee, the bitter smell floating up to him in a cloud of delicious, hazelnut flavoured vapor.  The ceramic of the 'I Love Daddy' mug is almost too hot to touch, burning into his palms and turning his fingers red with the stinging heat.  Bringing the mug to his lips, the blows softly on the tar colored liquid before taking a tentative, scalding sip that leaves his tongue feeling fuzzy and singed, a soft swear passing over his lips in response. 

 

He sets the mug onto the counter with a dull thunk, before flicking on the tap to guzzle a palmful of freezing water, hoping it will sooth his scorched tongue. This is what he gets for rushing like an idiot, just so he can catch a glimpse of the elusive Regina Mills. He's a sodding fool. 

 

He runs a hand through his bed rumpled hair, fingers combing and flattening wayward strands that stick up in every direction, until it's tamed into something more presentable before reaching for the offending mug once again.  He shuffles from foot to foot, trying to find his previous spot on the tiles, numb feet seeking a bit of pre-warmed limestone before finally stopping as he sees a flash of light from across the road--sunrise glaring off the glass of her front door like a beacon calling him to attention.

 

He watches as she shuffles out the door, wrapped in a puffy black coat that reaches her knees, a red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck with a matching fleece hat pulled down to cover her ears.  Her hair is sticking out at the bottom in little curls that whip around her face in the wind.  She looks adorable, like an insulated doll-no-she'd hate being called that, but he thinks it just the same, chuckling into his coffee as he takes another quick sip, grimacing at the still blisteringly hot liquid.

 

The door swings shut behind her, and he watches as she seems to sway a bit, fishing for her keys, and that's when he sees; it seems like he's not the only one having a slightly off morning.  She rotates to the side, keys dangling from her fingers as she tries to keep her bag balanced in the crook of her elbow, the fingers of her other hand wrapped firmly around the handle of her cane.  So, it's a bad morning after all.

 

On mornings like this, she rarely waves, instead she tucks into herself, head turned down against the wind as she forges to her car like a soldier trudging into battle; today is no different.

 

She flinches as she hobbles down the curve of the sidewalk, leaning heavily on her cane.  Each step is cautious and slow, delicate feet stepping solidly to avoid slipping on the ice slicked pavement.  He really should go over and salt her drive for her. Would she see that as invasive or presumptive?

 

He's mulling over the potential consequences of playing 'good samaritan' while she's at work when he sees the end of her cane catch a patch of black ice next to the front wheel of her car.  Everything seems to move in slow motion as he sets his coffee on the counter, running quickly to his own front door, flinging it open and running full pelt across his front lawn, oblivious to the cold stinging his bare feet. All he sees is the end of her cane tipping up, the twist of her ankle as her feet come out from under her and she tumbles slowly to the ground.

  
**...**   
  


Pain.

 

Everything is a fog of ache and muted white. Her ears feel like they're filled with cotton, muffling the sound of everything but the harsh, stuttering whoosh of her breath.

 

" _ Ow _ " she groans into the air, squeezing her eyes shut against the pain as she mentally assesses her injuries: cut palms, bruised bottom, and a potentially sprained ankle.  Perfect.  It's early, so the likelihood of someone finding her to help is slim to none; she's going to have to find a way to get herself back inside or into her car on her own.

 

"Regina!"

 

Her eyes spring open at the sound of his voice, before closing again in mortification, a whimpering moan sliding past her lips. Why did it have to be  _ him _ ?

 

She forces herself into a sitting position, determined to look as graceful as she can sprawled on her driveway with a bruised ass in the cloud coated dawn.

 

"Regina, are you alright?" he pants, squatting down beside her, warm fingers gripping her shoulder as he looks her over quickly, eyes flicking over her twisted legs, the folded dip of her middle, and the stinging redness of her hands, before coming back to her face.

 

"I'm fine. Just thought I'd become better acquainted with the ice around my car." she grits, trying desperately to lighten the situation, and sighing in relief when he cracks a smile.

 

"Can you stand?" He asks, his grip sliding from her shoulder to brace the back of her elbow, arm poised and ready to take the brunt of her weight as she struggles to her feet.

 

"Let's find out, shall we?" She sasses, as she reaches blindly for her cane, the slick metal having slid away from her in the fall.

 

"It's okay. I've got you. I can get it for you after I've checked you over."

 

And that's when she sees; she'd been so wrapped up in feeling sorry for herself, for falling flat on her backside in front of him, that she hadn't noticed he's barefoot, in the ice, wearing nothing but a thin t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting pajama pants.

 

"Are you insane?! You don't have any shoes on! It's freezing out here, Robin!"

 

"I was worried! I saw you starting to fall and I wanted to make sure you were alright. Now can we stop arguing about this and get inside so I can check on that ankle you think I can't see you're guarding, and we can both warm up?"

 

She rolls her eyes at him, mumbling an ' _ insufferable man _ ' under her breath before gripping the hand he stretches out in offering.  She's just about upright, when her weight shifts onto her bad ankle, pain searing up through her leg that threatens to topple them both back to the icy pavement.

 

She bites down on her lip, clamping the soft flesh between her teeth to muffle the cry threatening to bubble forth, but Robin notices immediately.  He adjusts his stance before she can draw breath to protest, the hand gripping hers pulling firmly until he can drape it along the back of his neck as he bends slightly at the knees and scoops her up into his arms.

 

"Robin, you don't have to-"

 

"Yes. I do." he cuts her off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll come back for your bag after I get you inside," he states shifting his arms slightly so one is tucked firmly in the bend of her knees, being sure to keep her ankle elevated, and the other is wrapped firmly around her back, before carrying her across the street towards his front door.

 

She sinks into his hold, her cheek resting against the coolness of his chest, the frigid air having seeped through his shirt to the skin below.  He smells of pine and sleep, soft and worn around the edges as if he'd just crawled out of bed before running to her rescue. It's comforting and intoxicating, and she has to resist the urge to tuck her nose into the bend of his neck and simply breathe him in.  She's embarrassed herself enough already, no point in making it worse by acting like a character out of a bad romance novel. 

 

She’s so wrapped up in the mentally chastising herself that it takes her a minute to notice that they're headed across the cold expanse of asphalt that separates their front yards, instead of the 20 feet to her front door. 

 

“Where do you think you're going?”

 

“Inside. I thought we'd established that,” he answers as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. 

 

“My door is that way,” she clarifies, pointing with the hand that's not currently wrapped around the back of his neck. 

 

“We aren't going to your house, we're going to mine. No shoes, remember?” He grins, entirely too pleased with himself for a man who is probably on the verge of heroism induced hypothermia. 

 

“You could have borrowed something from me.” She offers weakly-it's a grasping argument and they both know it. 

 

“No offense milady, but four inch stilettos aren't my style,” he quips with a grin. “Besides, my medical kit is at my house, and I'd like to take a proper look at that ankle, after we get you warmed up.” 

 

She can't really argue with him on that one, so she compromises with a roll of her eyes and a soft sigh as they cross the last few feet of his lawn.  Luckily, he left his door wide open in his haste to develop frostbite, so they make it into the house without an issue.  He carries her through the entryway and kitchen towards the living room, but instead of depositing her on the couch as she expects, he turns down the hallway and carries her into his study. 

 

“I thought this would be a better option,” he grunts as he sets her gently onto the soft, pebbled leather of the sofa.  “This room heats up a bit faster than the others,” he explains, reaching for a small black remote on the side table. He clicks two buttons and the electric fireplace on the far wall roars to life, the heat immediately surging through the room and breaking through some of the chill that's settled into her bones from her snow-damp clothes. 

 

She's never been in this room before; it's cozy: dark wood bookcases lining the walls stacked with old leather bound books and trinkets, a plush rug that stretches across the oak slat flooring and two stately hunter green wing-back chairs resting beside the fire. It's masculine, but comfortable, the perfect balance of rustic and intellectual; it suits him. 

 

A dull  _ thunk  _ startles her out of her reverie and she looks down to see a folded pair of sweatpants and a royal blue sweater on the cushion beside her. 

 

“I thought I'd bring you something so you can change out of those wet clothes while I go grab your bag and cane. I'll check your ankle when I get back.” He explains, already halfway through the door. 

 

“Put some shoes on!” she calls as he leaves the room.

 

“Yes dear,” he calls back, already halfway down the hallway.

 

As soon as she hears the door click closed she peels off the cold clothes clinging to her skin and  slips into his. It feels oddly intimate, draped across his couch, a pair of his sweat pants hanging loosely from her hips and wrapped in a soft sweater that still smells faintly of the peppery wintergreen of his cologne. The phantom feeling of his arms around her, surrounded by the fading smell of his skin has tension curling up her spine, the sudden desire to  _ run _ churning through her veins. And yet, when he walks back in the room, dimples flashing, hair still mussed from sleep, all she can do is sink into the couch cushions boneless.  She's been running away her whole life, maybe Robin is something she can finally _ run to _ .

**…**

As Robin walks back into the room he stops for a moment, soaking in the image of Regina dressed in his clothes, hair ruffled and adorable, skin pink and glowing in the light from the fire. He knows, he  _ knows _ it shouldn’t, but it  _ does _ something to him, seeing her this way curled up in front of the fire in his shirt and sweats. She’s made it perfectly clear that she’s not ready, so he’s not going to push, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the view for just a few more seconds. 

 

“Did the cold freeze your eyes too, or have you just lost the ability to blink?” She sasses from the couch, one eyebrow arched and waiting for a reply. 

 

“Sorry, I got a bit distracted,” he says, moving around the sofa and kneeling on the rug so he can check her ankle and she just chuckles in response. 

 

He’s still freezing, the few minutes he’s been inside having done little to thaw out the icy chill that’s settled into his skin, but he wants to make sure she’s okay before he goes upstairs and changes into something warmer. She flinches slightly when his fingers touch her skin, so he pulls back, rubs them together and blows on them until they’re slightly warmer and won’t cause her so much discomfort as he checks her ankle and decides that, yes, it’s a mild sprain, but he can wrap it for her so she won’t have to worry about sitting in the ER for hours and waiting to be told the same thing by another doctor. 

 

“What’s the verdict doc?” Regina asks eying the compression bandage he pulls out of his kit and sets it on the couch cushion next to her.

 

“I think it’s a Grade 1 sprain. I’m going to ice it now to see if the swelling goes down a bit and then wrap it for you. If you still can’t walk on it tomorrow without severe pain you should go to the ER to get an x-ray just to make sure you don’t have a mild fracture. Otherwise, with rest, regular icing, and compression, it should heal in about 5-14 days.” He pulls the ottoman from in front of the wing-back chair and slides it across the floor until he can prop her foot up on it. “Keep it elevated. I’m going to go change out of these clothes and then I’ll be right back with some ice for your ankle. Do you need to use the phone to call out of work?”

 

“No, thanks. I’ll just use my cell to let them know I’ll be working from home today. Go and get out of those wet clothes, I’m not going anywhere,” she says, gesturing to her injured ankle.

 

“There’s a blanket on the back of the couch if you get cold.” He pads out of the room, the soft tone of her voice on the phone floating down the hallway; it’s not enough for him to discern what she’s saying, but there’s something nice about having her here, having another voice in his house that seems to be too quiet and empty on the weeks Roland is away. 

 

When he comes back downstairs—dressed in a warm pair of charcoal grey sweats and an ocean blue henley and his plaid slippers—she’s wrapped up in the blanket, her foot still propped up on the ottoman. He places a bag of ice wrapped in a towel that he grabbed in the kitchen on the way down and places it on her ankle, cringing an apology when she hisses slightly in response. 

 

“S’okay,” she mumbles in reply. “Are you still cold?” 

 

“A bit, but I’ll warm up in a second.” He shrugs, settling onto the other side of the sofa. 

 

She doesn’t say anything in response, she just lifts the end of the blanket in a silent offering. He doesn’t hesitate; he slides over to her side of the couch and under the blanket, snuggling into the little cocoon of body heat she’s created from the few minutes spent wrapped up in the chenille softness. He smiles when she releases a little sigh and shifts her weight until she’s leaning against him, cuddling into his side seeking contact in a way she usually shies away from.  

 

They don’t say anything, they just stare into the flames of the electric fireplace while the ice slowly melts around her ankle. After a few minutes his arm starts to go numb from where she’s leaning on it so he wriggles it free and drapes it along the back of the couch, his fingers barely brushing her shoulder. He’s holding his breath waiting for her to pull away, but instead she shuffles closer, tucking herself into his side, so he takes a chance and pulls her hair to the side, fingers lingering in the silky softness before leaning down to press a kiss to the tender skin behind her ear.  She shivers at the touch, goosebumps raising along her arms as he trails his fingers up and down in smooth, sweeping passes.   

  
And for a few moments that’s enough. It’s enough to wrap up in each other, to sink into each other’s space, to pretend they’re two normal people for a few minutes instead of what they are, neighbors who wave and watch, who arrange playdates for their sons, who dance around the idea of what they are or could be because of the hanging weight of everything they can’t quite bring themselves to say floating between them.


	8. Coffee Stirrers and Spoon Theory

She spends Wednesday at home nursing her sprained ankle, curled on the couch working on sketches and designs with nothing but the crackling of the fire and the scratching of graphite against paper to keep her company while Henry is at school. She’s sore, her whole body feels like a giant bruise from the joint-aching cold and the fall she’d taken the day before, but it’s not as bad as she was expecting it to be. Even her dodgy ankle seems to be mostly okay, and by midday she’s able to walk on it with only a slight limp. 

 

All things considered it should have been a fairly productive day, but her mind keeps wandering across the road to a different couch, with a different blanket, and the smell of fresh evergreen spiced cologne and  _ Robin _ . She can’t seem to erase the feeling of his hands on her ankle as he wrapped it, the way his fingers combed through her hair, the warmth of him cuddled up with her on the sofa. It was all perfectly innocent, well, mostly innocent, but it was  _ nice _ to just be for a few minutes, to let someone take care of her, to let  _ Robin  _ take care of her. But now it has her mind wandering, and all of the feelings she’d started to develop for this man and neatly trampled down into a safe, contained place are bubbling up to the surface and distracting her. 

 

When she’s reached 3pm and most of the character sketches she’s attempted working on have somehow transformed themselves into different versions of Robin, she gives up for the day and packs her pencils away. 

 

**...**

 

By Thursday she feels well enough to go into the office. Maybe a bit of physical distance from the living, breathing distraction across the street will help her focus and get some work done. Or so she thinks. She’s just shut the door and turned to wave, as they do every morning, only to see  _ him  _ jogging across his lawn to meet her at the end of the drive. 

 

"Hi," he breathes, puffs of air fogging around his lips in the morning chill. “How’s your ankle doing?”

 

"Good morning," she smiles in return, adjusting the strap of her bag so it sits more comfortably against her shoulder.  "It’s much better, thanks. I still have your clothes, I was going to wash them and bring them back over to you.”

 

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Take your time. They looked better on you anyway,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

 

He seems nervous, like there’s something he wants to say, but he’s not sure how to go about it. It’s not like him, it’s not like  _ them _ ; they’ve always had such an easy way of talking—flirting if she’s honest with herself—but he seems to need the extra push today, so she asks, “Was that all you wanted, or did you need something else?"

 

"I wanted to see if you're free this Saturday," he blurts out, suddenly looking very much like Roland after he’s done something he knows might get him in trouble. 

 

Of course, he wants to know if Henry can come over or Roland can come to theirs. For a minute she thought he wanted to talk about that moment on his couch, their friendly, somewhat more-than-just-friendly cuddle post-ankle spraining incident and the very irritating, distracting feelings it has forced to the surface, but it seems she’s the only one suffering from _ ‘I’ve got a thing for my neighbor’  _ syndrome. "Henry has basketball camp this weekend, so he's away, but maybe next weekend? Or another day next week?"

 

"Roland is still with his mother this weekend. I wanted to see if  _ you  _ would like to have coffee?” he asks, and when she doesn’t respond right away he adds, “With me."

 

Oh. Well, that's unexpected. 

 

"Robin, I...that is, I don't..."

 

"I know you drink coffee. And I drink coffee. What's the harm in having some together?” He’s tentative, but flirtatious, ending his question by biting his bottom lip. “There's a great little cafe downtown, quiet booths, hipster pastries, nice music. We can spend some time together, as adults, talking about something other than spandex clad superheroes and legos. It doesn't have to be anything more if you don't want it to be. Unless, maybe you do?" he adds, looking at her with those puppy dog blue eyes. Damn him. 

 

“Trust me, you don't want to get into this, I have... _ stuff _ ,” she says, moving around him and unlocking her car, swinging open the door to put a bit of physical space between them.

 

“Regina, we all have stuff.” He leans on the top of the open door, not enough to invade her space, but just enough to keep her from shutting the door and sealing herself off from him. 

 

“Not like mine. You couldn't handle mine,” she argues, sliding into the driver’s seat.

 

“Why don't you let me be the judge of that?” he asks, completely unphased by her attempts at scaring him away. “You said there were things I didn't know, that I don't understand, so tell me. Have coffee with me and we'll talk.”

 

She doesn’t say anything, she’s already tried to warn him off multiple times and it clearly hasn’t worked. What’s the worst that could happen? They have coffee and he realizes that she is right and he’s not prepared to deal with the complication that is having someone like her in his life, and they go back to the comfortable pattern of being neighbors who flirt a bit too much to be friends but not enough to be more. Or maybe— just maybe—he’ll surprise her. She’s not sure which option scares her more. 

 

He’s still leaning on her door waiting patiently for an answer, so she just nods, whispering a quick, “Okay.” 

 

He promises to text her the address later as he shuts her car door, waving a quick goodbye as she backs out onto the street. She tosses her hand up in reply, swallowing around the fluttering warmth churning in her stomach at the sight of him standing in her drive, a beautiful, triumphant smile spread across his face. 

  
  


**…**

 

He's tried on three outfits, well three shirts, but that's more than he usually bothers with before going out. There’s no reason for him to be worried, it’s just coffee with Regina, but then again it’s  _ coffee  _ with  _ Regina _ . He’s known her for months, she’s seen him with 5 o’clock shadow and pajamas, gym clothes, and suits and everything in between. They’re comfortable, familiar, like a couple of dance partners who know each other’s movements, perfectly in tune with their own version of normal, but now they’re changing songs and it’s left him slightly unsure of the steps. 

 

He checks himself in the mirror one more time; it’s fine, he looks fine, but he can do better. He peels off the hunter green henley he had on and goes back to his closet, looking over the various folded sweaters and tops before deciding on a sky blue button down. Regina likes him in blue, she’s mentioned it before, the way it brings out his eyes, and it goes better with the charcoal grey trousers than the green had. 

 

Yes. That’s better. 

 

He tucks in the shirt, snakes a black belt through the loops of his trousers, and slides on a pair of matching loafers to finish the outfit. As he snaps on his watch he glances at the time, he should leave soon, just to make sure he’s there in time; he’d hate to hit traffic and be late.    

 

**...**

 

He’s early. Stupid early. 

 

He pulls into the lot of Holy Grounds a full thirty minutes before they’re supposed to meet each other. It’s usually a busy place, but from what he can see through the large front windows, it doesn’t seem to be too packed yet. However, it could easily get busy quickly, so he may as well go in and secure a table for them if he can. 

 

The decor and the clientele might be a bit on the quirky side, but the music is good, not so loud that you can’t easily have a conversation and not at the too quiet mumbling level that leaves you straining to catch a lyric here or there so you know what’s playing. Besides all of that, the real reason he wanted to come here was the drinks; the coffee is excellent, offering all of the usual options milky lattes, frothy cappuccinos, rich espresso, but they also have a selection of Latin American drinks: ojo rojo, horchata, and their speciality cafe de olla, a sweet, spiced coffee thick with cinnamon and piloncillo. He thought it seemed like the kind of place Regina would like; he hopes he's right. 

 

When he walks in he notices a few empty tables scattered around the room and one booth open at the side. He eyes the mismatched chairs that add to Holy Grounds’ eclectic vibe, each table surrounded with a collection of deep wingbacks, rickety wicker chairs with thin cushions, or straight-backed parson’s chairs and he decides that maybe the booth is the better option. The soft, buttery leather and the thick padded seats might be more comfortable for Regina, and if her ankle is still bothering her she can easily prop her foot up on the opposite cushion without everyone in the coffee shop seeing.   

 

He still has twenty five minutes to kill, so he orders an americano and settles into the booth and people watches for a while to kill the time. The larger tables are filled with students working on revision amidst mountains of empty coffee cups and scattered bits of paper and post-its. There are a few odd ‘artistic’ types who fancy themselves screen-writers or novelists whiling their weekends away, camped out in one of the corner booths typing away and sipping black americanos or cortados as they brood beneath their flat-caps. It’s not as full today as it usually is on a weekend, the thinned crowd providing him with less of a distraction. 

 

Pre-date nerves drying out his mouth and making his fingers itch for something to keep them busy have him finishing his americano in five minutes, so he orders another. He takes a little longer to finish this one, ten minutes coming and going, leaving him just shy of five minutes left to wait and with a desperate need to use the loo. The cafe is filling up now though, and he doesn't want to risk getting up and losing the table.

 

He's about to sacrifice their seats, the double dose of caffeine sloshing around his bladder refusing to be ignored, when the guy at the next booth leans over and says, “You waiting for someone? Need me to watch the table for you for a minute?”

 

He must have looked more desperate than he realized. “That would be great, thanks, mate,” Robin says, sliding out of the booth, depositing his now empty coffee cup in the bussing bin on his way to the bathrooms in the back. 

 

A few minutes later when he rounds the corner coming back from the loos he spots Regina walking in through the front door, her eyes scanning the room until they land on him and she smiles. He crosses the room to meet her, hoping his lip-bitten grin hides the nerves fluttering in his stomach. 

 

“Hi. Have you been waiting long?” she asks, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his cheek in greeting.   

 

“No, I’ve only been here a few minutes,” he fibs, cutting his eyes when the guy watching their table coughs something that sounds distinctly like  _ liar _ . 

 

“Oh good, I thought I was running late,” she breathes, nervously fiddling with the top button of her coat, buttoning and unbuttoning it repeatedly as she talks.

 

“I got us a table,” he says, sliding his hand to the small of her back and ushering her towards their booth. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll grab us a couple drinks?” 

 

“That sounds great, thanks,” she replies, finally unbuttoning her coat fully and shrugging it off. She quickly looks over the menu, her eyes lighting up when she spots the section of Latin American drinks. “Did you know about these when you suggested we come here?” 

 

“I thought you might like it,” he grins, pleased that his decision to come here seems to have paid off. 

 

She smiles again, that bright, full smile that reaches all the way to her eyes as she gives him her order, and he knows that even if everything else today goes horribly wrong, at least he got this one thing right.  

 

**…**

 

She watches as Robin orders and waits at the counter for their drinks, taking a minute to quickly check her lipstick and fluff her hair while his back is turned. He looks delicious in his button down and perfectly fitted grey slacks, it makes her feel a bit casual in comparison in her dark wash jeans and soft cranberry sweater, but he didn’t seem to mind. She’s just jittery, letting her pre-date nerves get the best of her and pick apart every little thing from the way her sweater clings a bit more to her curves than she would like to the slightly chipped merlot polish on her nails she now wishes she’d taken the time to redo. Luckily Robin doesn’t leave her alone with her quickly spiraling self-consciousness for long.

 

**“** Here you go,” Robin says as he slides into the booth across from her with their drinks, a cafe de olla for her and an americano for him.  

 

“Thank you,” she murmurs as she breathes in the rich aroma of cinnamon and dark coffee before taking a quick sip. It’s just as delicious as she expected, sweet and spicy, with just the right amount of bitterness lingering on her tongue. “So,” she says as she pulls the cup away from her lips, unsure of how to start.  

 

“So,” he echoes, placing his own drink back on its saucer. “Look, I’m just going to put this out there; I think you know how I feel about us, about the idea of at least giving us a chance.” 

 

“Robin, you say that, but there is still so much we don’t know about each other. There are still so many things you don’t know about me.” 

 

“As you’ve said, so let’s talk about it. What do you think I need to know?” 

 

“That’s a loaded question,” she scoffs, taking another sip of her drink to buy some time. “Why don’t we do it this way, where would you like to start?” 

 

“Okay,” he pauses for a moment, one finger tapping against the side of his coffee cup, as if it’s helping him gather his thoughts. “What's this spoon thing you're always talking about? You and Henry? Is it some secret code?” 

 

She wasn't expecting that. Of all the things he could start with, he could ask anything at all, and he wants to know about something with her son, something of her life that he's seen, but not understood. She chews on her lip, trying to decide if it's the right time to tell him. Things have been going so well the last few weeks; it's been  _ nice _ , the potential of it all, and telling him will just ruin it. 

 

But if this is going to go anywhere, he needs to know. 

 

“Why don't I show you?”

 

She walks over to the takeaway bar and grabs a handful of the wooden coffee stirrers, cringing a little at the dry texture that sticks to her skin and sets her teeth on edge. She turns and strides back over to the table with a smile that she hopes hides the nerves flipping around in her stomach, whispering that this is a bad idea, that he's going to run out the door the second that he knows; but if he does then he was never worth her time in the first place. 

 

"They aren't spoons, but they'll have to do," she murmurs, sliding back into the booth. 

 

One of his eyebrows ticks up in interest, eyes flicking between the bundle of stir sticks in her hand and her increasingly nervous face, but he doesn't say anything, he just sits and waits, patiently giving her the space to talk in her own time. 

 

"Spoon Theory was created by a woman named Christine Miserandino to describe what it's like to live with lupus, an autoimmune disease, but it's been adopted by people with various chronic illnesses." She swallows around the words  _ people like me _ threatening to burst forth. Who just says that? Shouldn't there be some kind of lead up, some kind of apology or something? 

 

He's a smart man, he'll figure it out. Once she's explained the theory he'll probably put two and two together and assume she has lupus or something that makes this relevant to her...

 

"So you have lupus? SLE or Discoid?" 

 

"What? How do you—" She stutters over the questions; she’s spent weeks,  _ months _ really, worrying about telling him this and he’s just acted like it was the most normal, expected thing.

 

"I'm a physical therapist, I work with all sorts of patients, not just athletes." He shrugs, one dimple winking into view as he gives her a lopsided smile.  

 

"And you don't know what Spoon Theory is?" she asks, voice heavy with sarcastic disapproval. 

 

"No one has ever taken the time to explain it to me." He tosses a look to the sticks still clutched in her hand as if to invite her to continue.  

 

"Oh, right. Here." She thrusts the bouquet of stirring sticks into his hands. "Congratulations, you have lupus." 

 

"I don't know a lot about the disease, but I'm not sure that's how it works," he sasses, as the teasing banter they had earlier returns, calming the queasy mess of butterflies storming in her stomach. 

 

"Okay, smart ass." She glares, a warm flush blooming through her chest when he chuckles in response. "For the purpose of this object lesson it is. Now where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?"

 

"You were giving me lupus." 

 

"Right. Count your spoons," she instructs.

 

"Why?" 

 

"Because when you're healthy you don't have to think about it; you go through the day making choices without thinking about the direct consequences. You have an unlimited number of 'spoons.'" 

 

She catches his eyes, trying to read if she's getting this right, if he's still with her and she hasn't started babbling on in a way that's too much to take in. He nods, flashing her a brief smile, so she carries on. 

 

"When you're sick," the unspoken,  _ like I am _ , filling the pause she leaves between words, "you have to know exactly how many 'spoons' you have at the start of the day." 

 

"Okay, so I have," he draws out the 'a' as he counts, elongating the word until he can finish with a cheerful, "15." His lips immediately turn down in a pout. "That's not very many, I want a few more." He slides to the end of the booth like he's going to get out and grab more sticks from the coffee counter, until her hand flies out and circles around his wrist, freezing him in place. 

 

"No,” she clips, her voice sharp and cool, leaving no room for argument. “That's all you get." She's spent years of her life wishing she had more spoons and not being able to do a damn thing about it. He can live with the metaphorical deprivation for a few minutes. "And be careful not to drop any of them, once they're gone they're gone."

 

"Okay," he nods as he settles back into his seat, some of the mirth before draining away until all that is left is the ocean blue focus of his eyes. Good. If this is going to work she needs him to take it seriously.  

 

"Now, I want you to walk me through your day. Everything you do, no matter how mundane it may seem." 

 

"Okay. I get up and then..."

 

"No! You don't just 'get up,'” she interrupts, taking over the narration. “You have to peel your eyes open, you have to stretch and settle. You didn't sleep well last night, so you're groggy and sleep-drunk, but you're already running behind. You have to go downstairs and make breakfast..." she continues until he catches on and slides back in.

 

"For me and for Roland. Ugh, I have to wake up Roland," he groans, dropping his head to rest on the back of his hands. She can feel the exhaustion wafting off of him and this is only an imaginary situation. How bad must waking Roland be if it causes him this much grief just thinking about it?  _ Maybe one day you’ll find out _ , an annoying little voice chirps in the back of her head, but she ignores it.

 

"But before you do that, you have to eat something so you can take your medication, because if you don't you may as well throw away all of your spoons for the rest of the day." She reaches across and plucks a spoon from the arrangement in his hand. 

 

"Hey! What did you do that for?" 

 

"That cost you one spoon." She doesn't bother trying to explain that it could cost more than that; that going down stairs that early in the morning if pain levels were high or if she hadn't slept enough over the last few days could compound the issues and make even just getting out of bed a multiple spoon affair. 

 

"But I didn't do anything!"  

 

"Exactly." 

 

It seems like he's starting to understand. 

 

They carry on as Robin talks about packing Roland’s lunch and getting him dressed, shuffling him onto the bus and waving goodbye before going back inside to shower and dress for work. Each daily activity comes at the cost of a spoon.  

 

“You mean I haven’t even left the house and I’m already down 6 spoons?” he asks, looking at her like he’s clearly been cheated. 

 

“Some days it can take more than that. Getting dressed by itself usually costs an entire spoon. If I’m having a bad day where my joints are swollen and my hands are in pain I can’t deal with anything that has buttons or clasps. If I have bruises I have to wear long sleeves or long pants. If my skin is sensitive I need looser fabrics or to wear something soft so it’s not irritated. On days I have a fever I have to layer or pack a sweater to keep warm or deal with temperature changes. And that’s just picking an outfit.” 

 

She doesn’t bother mentioning the extra few minutes she takes feeling disgusted with herself because it takes over an hour to get ready, or how exhausted she can be if she’s had to try on multiple things to find something comfortable she can stand to wear for the whole day. 

 

Robin doesn’t say anything, he just silently takes one of the stirring sticks from his bundle and slides it across the table to her. “If we’re going to do this, I want to do it right, don’t be easy on me.” 

 

“Okay.” She nods, impressed, taking the ‘spoon’ and settling it into the pile of used ones on the side of the table. “You have to think about the rest of your day wisely. You have to decide what’s worth spending a spoon on and what isn’t. You can borrow against tomorrow’s spoons if you want, but you never know if you’re going to need that extra spoon the next day.” 

 

“What could you need it for?”

 

“If you get sick, like the flu or an infection. Something that’s fairly routine for a ‘healthy’ person can be very dangerous or take a long time to get over for someone with lupus. You have to be prepared.” 

 

He nods, chewing on his bottom lip, an all too familiar glossing of pity gathering in eyes that stings more that it probably should. She reaches over and curls her fingers around his hand, smiling as if to reassure him that it’s okay, that she’s fine, that she doesn’t need his pity. Luckily, it seems to break him out of the shadow settling over him before it has a chance to darken the whole conversation; he gives her fingers a quick squeeze and they carry on. 

 

They talk through the rest of his day as Robin learns the consequences of certain decisions; skipping a break at work would cost a spoon, not eating his lunch on time, standing for too long during a training session or sitting for too long at his desk would all costs spoons. It forces him to think differently about his decisions, to look at his options from a new perspective, until they reach the end of his work day and he only has one ‘spoon’ left. 

 

“So I’m at the end of the day. I’m hungry but I need to make sure Roland eats and gets put to bed,” Robin says, with a look of genuine distress over his single remaining stirring stick. 

  
“If you skip dinner you lose a spoon. You can cook for you and Roland, but you probably won’t have the energy to clean up or do bath time with your son,” she replies, matter of fact. 

 

“What about going out to dinner?” 

 

“You could, but you might be too tired to drive home.” She doesn’t bother mentioning that after a day like that she’d probably be too exhausted and nauseous to eat much of anything anyway. 

 

“What about takeout? That’s easy and little to no clean up.” He smiles, like he’s found some secret loophole. 

 

“Fine,” she rolls her eyes. “You have take out and you put Roland to bed. You still have the one spoon left so you can do some chores around the house, or you can clean, or you can do something entertaining, but you can’t do it all.” 

 

“You do this every day?” Something shifts in his eyes, they fill with  _ emotion _ , it’s not pity or disgust like she expects, it’s almost like understanding. It’s sharp and unexpected, has her own breath catching in her throat and water filling her eyes until she quickly blinks it away. “How? How do you deal with that?”

 

“Some days are harder than others, and some days I have more spoons than others. I can’t really do anything about it. I can’t  _ forget  _ about it. It’s always there. And,” she pauses, pulling an extra stick she’s kept in reserve out of her pocket and handing it to him, “I’ve learned to always keep an extra spoon, just in case.”  

 

He nods, plucking the spoon from her hand, staring at it for a moment before reaching over and lacing their fingers together, lifting their joined hands until he can press a kiss to her knuckles. 

 

“There,” Regina sighs, voice a bit breathless and thin until she clears her throat and continues. “Now you understand. At least a little bit. Still think you want to sign up for this?" She quirks an eyebrow at him, self righteousness snark oozing off of her in waves. 

 

"Have dinner with me."

 

"What?" she asks, pulling her hand out of his grasp.

 

"Have dinner with me. You know, two people, plates of food, glasses of wine, stimulating conversation, maybe a good night kiss if you play your cards right," he cheeks, biting that damn lip at her with a satisfied smirk. 

 

"I know what dinner is," she sasses back, rolling her eyes. 

 

"Excellent. Now that we've cleared that up, why don't we pick a day?" 

 

"Wait. Did you listen to what I said at all? Do you have any idea what it's like to have someone with a chronic illness in your life?"

 

"Yes, Regina, I heard every word. And you are not your illness. It is a part of you, a part I would like to understand better, along with everything else about you,” he says, grasping her hand again and stroking his thumb along the peaks and valleys of her knuckles. “So, shall I pick you up tomorrow at seven?" 

 

And even though every sensible bone in her body is screaming for her to say no, that he’ll just end up bailing after she cancels on him for the third time because she’s sick or can’t go out, that he’ll walk away like every other guy she’s been foolish enough to let in, she swallows around her insecurities, smiles and says, “Yes.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoon Theory is the property of Christine Miserandino. I have merely borrowed the idea of it for this, but if you’re unfamiliar with the original take a look. Xx


	9. Cancelled Plans and Porch Swings

She wakes early on Sunday with the tell tale ache settled along her limbs, every cell in her body begging to slip back into the blissful oblivion of sleep.  

 

No. Not today.  

 

Today was supposed to be filled with candlelight and dimples, glasses of wine and high heeled shoes, not extra hours of sleep and handfuls of pain meds swallowed around bitterness and mouthfuls of water that taste like lead. She was going to soak in the tub and deep condition her hair, shave her legs and paint her nails. Today was supposed to be about something other than the disease coursing through her body, dismantling her piece by piece from the inside out.  

 

It _was_. But clearly her body has other ideas.

 

Reaching blindly along the floor, she fumbles for the controls to the heating pad burrowed below her sheets, flipping it on high with practiced precision, before snuggling back under the covers.  Within a few minutes the blissful heat starts to warm her brittle muscles, softening joints that have seized in slumber until they feel oiled and pliant enough to move without snapping and pulling.   

 

It's officially a bad day.

 

Why did _today_ have to be a bad one?

 

She allows herself a few more minutes wrapped in the warm cocoon of her bed, blankets and pillows cushioning her battered body, lulling her into a semblance of normalcy, before tossing back the corner of her duvet and struggling into a sitting position. She snags the cord to the heating pad with the tips of her fingers and clicks it off as she swings her legs to the side of the mattress, slowly standing on wobbly ankles that somehow hold her weight despite the tingle burning from the tips of her toes to the flex of her knees and the lock of her hips.  

 

She’ll feel better after she has a shower.  

 

She limps into her ensuite, stripping off her night clothes and chucking them in the hamper before turning on the shower so the water can warm up while she brushes her teeth. By the time she’s rinsed the last foamy remnants of spearmint toothpaste from her mouth, the room has filled with steam, the mirror fogging up and blurring away the tired reflection staring back at her. She pops open the bright blue flap marked ‘Sunday’ on her pill box, dumping the assortment of oddly colored capsules into her hand before popping all five of them in her mouth at once, tossing them back with a bit of water she slurps from her cupped palms.

 

She eyes the solitary orange tube of pain pills resting on the counter, debating whether or not she should take one now to edge off the pain.

 

Not yet. It’s not that bad. Yet.  

 

Maybe she’ll take one later if the shower doesn’t help. Turning away from the bottle she trudges back to the shower, making sure her towel and dressing gown are within an arm’s length for when she gets out, before stepping in and shutting the foggy glass door behind herself.       

The water feels like a thousand molten needles piercing through her skin even though her bones feel like solid ice. The dual sensations tingle along her limbs, her fingers bending and flexing under the spray until they feel less like blunt, useless glaciers attached to her hands. Clenching her teeth, she steps fully under the shower head, biting hard at the flesh on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out as pain lances through her under the force of the merciless water. So much for the grand plans she had of deep conditioning her hair and shaving her legs before her date.

 

There is no way dinner is going to happen.

 

**…**

 

Robin usually dreads the weekends Roland is away, the last few days at the end of a long, lonely week until his boy returns stretching silently ahead of him, each miserable minute passing slower than the last. But this weekend he's woken each morning with a smile; he's faced each day with an energy and an anticipation sparking through his nerves that he hasn't felt in a while, and it's all because of Regina.

 

He replays their date in his mind as he tidies the house, taking the opportunity to gather wayward toys and books while Roland isn’t underfoot to scatter them around again. Yesterday went well, better than he expected. He went into their date prepared for her to have all of her walls up, but instead she was vulnerable and candid, explaining her illness to him in a way that made her daily struggles clear and understandable. What broke his heart was the steeled resignation behind her eyes, the absolute certainty she seemed to have that he was going to walk away. It makes him wonder who walked out on her in the past. Who let her down? Who made her feel like she needed those walls just to get by?

 

Maybe eventually he'll find out.

 

He shrugs off the thought as he snags a random Spiderman t-shirt that somehow ended up wedged behind one of the sofa cushions and uses it as a crude baggie to wrap up the village of lego blocks he’s gathered from around the room. There’s no point in getting ahead of himself, no matter how taken he is with this woman. He’ll just take things one day at a time.

 

He’s in this, or at least he’s willing to try. He wants to know her and her boy, he wants to understand her life, to share in her challenges and her joys, but he knows it might take her a bit more time to get on the same page. Until then, he'll just have to reassure her that he won't disappoint her in the way she seems to have been in the past.

 

He sighs, scooping up an armful of Roland’s picture books, stuffed animals, a random action figure or two, and the t-shirt wrapped bundle of legos and starts lugging them upstairs. For now he’ll have to content himself with things that can be accomplished, like tidying the toy cluttered mess that is his home; there will be plenty of time to worry about relationship progressions later.

**...**

 

Regina eyes the cane resting in the umbrella stand by the door, the curved, finger-worn handle beckoning to her with the promise of relief; pride and ego warring momentarily with the screaming in her hip and knee until she gives in and pulls it from its metal cage. She _needs_ the damned cane if she has any hope of making it across the street without crumpling to the ground.  

 

He said he knew what he was signing up for, well this is what he signed up for. Canceled dinners and limping limbs.   

 

Curling her fingers around the end of her cane, she opens the door and starts the slow trudge across the street. At least it’s warmer today, the fickle New England weather ticking back up into the mid 60s, so at least she doesn’t have to worry about dodging patches of ice as she clomps her way over to Robin’s front door.

 

In the years since her diagnosis she has learned to appreciate the little things: cups of cocoa topped with a perfect layer of marshmallows, dandelion fuzz that blows away with a single wish-filled puff of breath, the delicious feeling of tucking her hand beneath the cool side of the pillow. She has come to revel in the small things, the little pleasures in life, to savor them and eek them out into spiraled semblances of happiness because she learned a long time ago that she was not the kind of person who was meant for the 'big things' the 'normal things'. Those things—like marriage, pregnancy, _health_ — were never meant to be hers. Each _clack_ of her cane against the pavement between their houses just reminds her how foolish it was to allow herself to think—to hope—that maybe just this once she could have a little slice of normal.

 

By the time she makes it across the street her knee aches, despite using the cane, and a thin ribbon of pain is slicing up her arm and down her back. She just needs to get this over with; she needs him to _see_ what a bad idea this is, so that she can slither home, curl up under her blankets, and lick her wounds. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts before sucking in a deep breath and knocking on the door; he answers on the third knock.    

 

“Hi, I wasn’t expecting to see you until later,” he smiles, holding the door open a little wider. “Do you want to come in and sit down?”  
  
“No,” she snaps, a bit too quickly. “I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to, but if I come in and sit down and you’re, well, _you_ , then I’m never going to get this out.”  
  
“Okay—” he draws out the ‘a’ as he steps out onto the porch with her, letting the door slide shut behind him. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”

 

“I don’t think dinner tonight is a good idea after all. I’m not having a great day,” she rushes out with a mirthless chuckle. “And it was a bad idea to begin with.”

“Woah, there; I thought we’d gotten past this,” he says, his face screwing up in an adorable wrinkle of confusion.

 

She sighs, adjusting her grip on her cane so she can stand a bit more comfortably, relieving some of the pressure building in her hips and the base of her spine. “Look at me Robin. Really look at me.” She fixes him with a determined stare and tries not to squirm as his eyes roam over her. “This is not something you need in your life. _This_ is who I am. I have bad days—more often than I care to admit—and sometimes, no matter how much I want to do something, it’s just not a possibility. Especially on days like today when I don’t have to worry about being strong or put together in front of Henry and I can just allow myself to rest.”

 

“I would never interfere with that. I would never ask you to do more than you’re capable of or comfortable with,” Robin reassures, “And you are beautiful, just as you are, even on your worst days,” he smiles, that damned dimpled smile, reaching up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.

 

“Don’t. Please,” she whispers, blinking rapidly against the tears threatening to gather and spill.

 

“Regina, I don’t care if you don’t feel up to going out tonight; it’s okay. I’m not interested in dating the restaurant, I’m interested in _you_.”

 

“You have remarkably poor taste,” she jibes with a watery laugh.

 

“You wound me,” he gasps, splaying a hand dramatically against his chest. “I have excellent taste, thank you very much.”

 

“Robin—” she sighs.

 

“We’ve been over this, Regina, spoons and all. So you don’t feel like going out tonight, so what? We can stay in. I can cook us dinner, or we can order takeout and you can stay curled up on the couch in your pajamas. I don’t care what we do, I just want to spend some time with you; something more substantial than the 5 minutes in the morning where we wave to each other and act like there is nothing else going on,” he argues.

 

“Hey, I like the wave. It’s a little bright spot in my day,” she sasses back before she can stop herself. It’s not until he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, grinning at her with a knowing look, that she realizes what she’s admitted. “Oh don’t look so smug about it.”

 

“Me? Smug? Never.” He jokes before sobering slightly, “In all seriousness, we don’t have to go out tonight, I’m happy to cook. I read this article about only eating certain foods to keep inflammation down—”

 

“I’m going to stop you right there,” she says, holding a hand up to silence him. “While it’s sweet to know that you apparently spent some time trolling Google looking for things about my illness, I can guarantee you there is no ‘miracle cure’ for lupus, and there is no ‘autoimmune protocol diet’ that works or that I haven’t already tried. Don’t you think if it was something as simple as ‘add more salads and avoid gluten’ I would have already done it? Don’t you think I want to be as healthy and as functional as possible for my son? For myself?” She challenges, trying and failing to keep the irritation out of her tone.

 

“I didn’t mean anything by it Regina, I just thought—”

 

“No, you didn’t think,” she snaps before he can even finish the sentence.

 

“Now wait a minute, that’s not fair,” he counters, folding his arms across his chest, suddenly guarded. “I was only trying to help. I thought if I did a little research I could maybe find something to make things better, to make things a bit easier for you.”

 

“You thought you could find a way to fix me.” She pauses after saying it, waiting for him to try and deny it, but he doesn’t. His eyes go wide for a moment, realization dawning in their blue depths, and the reality that yes, he wanted to _fix_ her, just like everyone else, stings worse than anything he could have said. “I don’t need you to fix me, Robin. I’m not broken.” She turns and starts clomping down the stairs with her cane. It’s not easy to make a dramatic exit when you have a slightly tilted gait, but she’s going to try her damndest to get back across the street with at least a bit of dignity.  

 

“Regina, wait,” he calls, jogging down the steps and cutting her off half way down the drive. “I know you aren’t,” he fumbles, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “God, I’m cocking this all up.”  

 

She doesn’t say anything, she just raises her eyebrows expectantly and waits.

 

“Look, I know I’m not getting this quite right, but you have to give me a chance,” he pleads. “I’m going to make mistakes, but I’ll learn from them and eventually I’ll get it right. But in order for me to do that, you have to give me the chance to, instead of defensively blocking me out from the start.”

 

“Do you have any idea how difficult this was for me?” she asks, barely above a whisper.

 

“What? Cancelling a date?” he replies flippantly.

 

“No. Admitting that something was wrong,” she says, looking him in the eyes. “It’s hard for me to let people see me this way, for me to show people when I am having a bad day, but I trusted you and respected you enough to come over here and tell you in person, to let you see. This isn’t going away, Robin. _This_ is part of me.”

 

“I get that. All I’m asking is that you give me a chance to know this part of you too, so I can learn what you need.” He pushes that stray strand of hair behind her ear again, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary, his thumb ghosting along the swell of her cheek. “Can you at least think about it?”

 

She can’t bring herself to say anything, so she just nods before weaving around him and staggering the rest of the way home. She needs time to let the instinctual agitation she’s cultivated from years of correcting people who think they know better than her about her own illness simmer down. But once the adrenaline drains out of her and she’s left with the empty exhaustion that always rises in the wake of this kind of fight; she thinks.

 

She thinks about what Robin asked for, about all the things he said, and she realizes that she hasn’t given him a chance. She’s spent so many years building barriers that she’s forgotten how to let people in. She’s spent so much time taking care of herself and everything else that she can’t remember what it’s like to ask for help, to be vulnerable, to let people see her and know her at her weakest points; what it’s like to give them an opportunity to offer support. Robin was right, he hasn’t been given a fair chance, mostly because she’s forgotten what’s it’s like to give one and not be let down. It’s a realization that lingers, settling at the forefront of her mind, refusing to be ignored.

 

She spends the remainder of the day resting, nestled comfortably in a cocoon of blankets with her heating pad until the searing pain in her joints mellows into a bearable ache. By early evening she’s feeling a bit better, less drained and irritable, but it leaves a sinking knot of uncertainty and guilt settled in her stomach; she needs to make things right with Robin. She changes into a warmer, more presentable outfit, applies a light dusting of makeup, grabs a couple of beers and heads out to the porch swing. Hopefully he’s still willing to give her chance, even after her spectacular display of temper that morning, but there’s only one way to find out.

  
  
**...**

 

Robin sees her from across the street, the light from the living room shining through the blinds and bathing her in a warm amber glow as she sways back and forth on the porch swing. She's changed out of what she had on earlier; now she’s wearing that cream sweater, the soft cable-knit one that looks like fluffy folds of marshmallow against the honey olive of her complexion and his fingers itch to curl around the hemline, to feel the contrast of the cozy fabric against the silk of her skin.

 

He should stop staring and go back inside, but he can't tear his eyes away, and she must sense it, must feel the weight of his gaze because she flattens her foot, braces and halts the swing instead of pushing off with a graceful point as she's been doing. She stops, and she stares back at him lifting her hands, a bottle in each, and she holds one out in his direction, tipping her head in an offering question.

 

What man alive, what _person_ alive, could turn down that kind of invitation?

 

He smiles and nods, holding a finger up to let her know he'll be over in a minute. He steps inside to swap his slippers for a comfy pair of trainers and he grabs the blanket off the back of the couch —it's starting to get cold and he'd hate for her to be chilly—then he snags his keys from the counter, locks the door, and jogs across the street.

 

She's swinging again as he walks up, on leg dangling from the end of the swing, catching the floorboards and pushing off in a slow, easy pattern, but she stops as she sees him walking up the stairs.

 

"Hi," she breathes, a soft blush tinting her cheeks. She's adorable and suddenly shy, it makes him want to curl around her even more, to wrap her in his arms until she knows there's nowhere he'd rather be than snugly by her side.  

 

"Hi," he answers. "May I join you?"

 

"Please." She scoots to the side, making a bit more room for him to sit beside her.

 

"I brought a blanket, it should be big enough to share, if you want?"

 

"I was starting to get a bit cold."

 

He takes that as a yes, unfolding the blanket and draping it across their laps as he sits on the swing, tucking the edge around her hips, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

 

Once he's settled she hands him the bottle she'd enticed him over with and he laughs when he reads the label. "Pumpkin Ale? Really?"

 

"What? It's delicious," she smirks, lips wrapping around the mouth of her bottle so she can take a sip.

 

"You have a pumpkin obsession."

 

"Oh just hush and drink your beer," she snips, taking another quick swig to hide her smirk.

 

"This is not beer. This is fall flavored swill," he snarks back, chuckling when she gasps and bumps him with her shoulder. "What? It is!"

 

"Just try it." She rolls her eyes, leaning further into his side from where she shoved him. He lifts his arm and drapes it along the back of the swing to give her more room and she burrows into him, seeking the extra warmth.

 

"Fine," he smiles, resisting the urge to press a kiss to the top of her head. She's so close, cuddled up to him beneath the blanket as they rock slowly back and forth with the rhythmic push and release of their feet against the floorboards.

 

He takes a tentative sip of the overly sweet-smelling liquid masquerading as beer, prepared for the worst, but it's surprisingly not bad. There's a soft, hoppy bitterness laced with the warmth of cinnamon and nutmeg, finished with the autumnal depth of sweet, earthy pumpkin. He takes a fuller sip, savoring the taste a bit more, when he feels her head shift, tilting up to watch him.

 

"Well?" She grins, biting her bottom lip as she waits for the answer she already knows is coming.

 

"It's not too bad."

 

"Told you." She smiles, a bright, toothy smile and he wants to lean down and kiss it from her lips, to see if pumpkin beer tastes better sipped from her mouth instead of the bottle, but he doesn't want to push her. So, he just takes another swallow of his drink.

 

This sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching as the sky darkens and the street lights blink to life, casually sipping their beers until they're half empty, and warming slightly in their hands.

 

She breaks the silence first, staring into the top of her bottle as she says, "So, I thought we could talk."

 

"Okay.” His mouth goes dry, no one ever wants to hear those words, and he has no idea where this conversation is going to go, so he takes a sip of his beer, hoping it will bring some moisture back to the desert that is his mouth before he asks, “What did you want to talk about?"

 

She sits up then, separating away from where she has been pressed against his side. She looks nervous all of a sudden, skittish, as she takes a deep drink from her beer, almost emptying it.

 

"I thought we could talk about," she pauses, sucking in a breath that she releases on a heavy sigh. "I thought we could talk about us."

 

"Us?" He asks, with a shocked raise of his eyebrows. That's the last thing he expected. He swallows the rest of his beer, chugging it down hoping to settle the nerves suddenly churning through his stomach. "Oh. Okay."

 

She plucks the empty bottle from his fingers, leaning over to set it in the window sill along with her own. When she turns back her expression has completely changed; she’s open, cracked at the seams and split wide, baring herself to him with tear brimmed eyes and fearful anticipation. She’s expecting him to run; the stiffness in her limbs, the straight, rigid line of her spine betrays the impact she’s bracing herself for, but her eyes are pleading with him not to go.

 

“I know. I know it’s not easy. It’s not fair to ask, to expect, to—” she hiccups on an intake of breath, her eyes clouding over as she starts to drift away from him, folding into the dark place he’s seen drape over her too many times. This time, he grabs on and refuses to let her slip away.

 

He hauls her against him, one hand tangling in her hair as the other anchors around her waist and he kisses the words from her mouth. For a moment she stiffens in his arms, and he starts to pull back, thinking he read things wrong, _again_ , that his momentary impulse has cocked everything up, but the second he withdraws she chases his lips, fusing their mouths back together with a soft whimper as she _melts_ into him.

 

It’s sloppy and raw, the angle isn’t quite right, but that’s not important. He wants her to _feel,_ to drown in the affection he has that he can’t quite put into words. He softens his hold on her, grasping hands molding into a soft caress, folding her into his arms with soothing passes along her spine and fingers scratching softly at the base of her skull until he feels the tension spool out of her. She wraps her arms around his waist, pressing as close as she can while she drags her lips over his again and again, languid and soft and settled.

 

And when she pulls back, quick breath panting across his skin, she’s still there, open and present and _his_ , and he knows he’ll do whatever he can to keep her there, to chase her darkness, to hold her hand, and steal her fears from her lips, for as long as he possibly can.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,  
> First off, I would like to thank you all for your support, for reading and leaving comments or sending messages, I appreciate it so much. Secondly, this is going to be the last update for a while. I am currently in the process of finishing my PhD and it's quite stressful at the moment, so I need to focus on that for now and come back to Spoons once I have submitted. Hopefully I've left things in a good place so you have something nice to hold on to in the meantime.  
> All the best,  
> Em


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